


Who Composed Your Beauties

by VivaRocksteady



Series: Who Composed Your Beauties [1]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Adoption, After-effects of sexual abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Domestic Violence, Foster Care, Gen, Holden is a foster kid, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder Mystery, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Build, Stillbirth, referenced miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 148,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady
Summary: When Bill and Nancy adopted Brian, they also grudgingly agreed to foster a teenaged boy named Holden Ford. Now, Bill Tench solves murders, ignores his own deep-rooted traumas, and-- maybe-- learns to be a father.Part One: COMPLETE!Part Two coming soon.





	1. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To you, your father should be as a god,  
One that composed your beauties, and one  
To whom you are but as a form in wax,  
By him imprinted and within his power  
To leave the figure, or disfigure it.
> 
> \- A Midsummer Night's Dream

A sad, worn out cardboard box sat on the couch. Bill looked down at it.

“Are you sure you don’t just want me to decorate the tree now?" he asked.

“Bill, no,” Nancy sighed. She set out a family of plastic reindeer on the mantle, above the stockings, next to the porcelain nativity scene. “We’re going to do it together as a family.”

“I just think it would be more, you know, Christmassy for them to come home to a fully decorated set-up.” Bill had opened the box, which was stuffed with Christmas decorations, most of which Nancy had made by hand over the barren years of their marriage.

Nancy fiddled with the reindeer. “Decorating the tree is a family activity, Bill,” she said tersely. “And I want them to feel like they’re part of a family.” 

Bill tossed the yarn elf decoration he was holding back in the pile. “All right,” he said. He was too exhausted to argue. And arguing had long since stopped leading to any compromise. They had forgotten how to argue, Nancy had read in one of her stupid fucking relationship books. 

A fire crackled in the fireplace. Nancy had made gingerbread men earlier, and the cozy smell lingered. Four stockings hung from the mantle: three of them lovingly home made out of felt and stuffing; one of them store bought, with the name hastily stitched on.

Bill stood next to Nancy, not close enough to touch, but close enough to be an invitation. He gently put a finger on the head of one of the little plastic reindeer. This one had a red nose. The odd one out.

“Oh, no,” Nancy said, pulling away from Bill, looking up. 

They had gotten the banner made two weeks ago, and Bill hurriedly put it up that morning. So much had happened that day that he didn’t even remember doing it. It took him a moment to see the problem. 

_Welcome Home, Brian!_

"Bill, get it down." Nancy was already in the kitchen, getting a pair of scissors.

"What??"

Nancy looked askance. "How do you think it's going to make him feel?"

Bill grit his teeth, and once again got out the step stool to reach up the wall and pull down the banner. "Seems like a waste of perfectly good money," he sneered as Nancy took the banner from him.

"So Brian gets a banner, and a stocking, and presents, and he gets nothing?" she snapped. "That seems fair to you?"

Bill scowled. She was right, of course, but she was also cutting his son's name off his welcome banner. "He's not going to be with us that long," he said.

Nancy did that thing women can do, where she ran the scissors open through the fabric, RRRIIIPPP, for a clean, straight tear. "I guess that makes it okay, then." She shoved the truncated banner back at him. 

Bill swallowed his irritation. He went back up the step ladder and hung the shortened banner. He didn't see what Nancy did with the _Brian_ part, but when he got back down, she was returning from the bedroom.

She checked on the shepherd's pie on the oven. "They should be here by now."

"I'm sure they're fine. It's a long drive from Lynchburg." He took the lull as an opportunity to finally flop on the couch with his beer, which had long gone warm.

As soon as he cracked open the can, Nancy plucked it out of his hand. "Not now Bill, god." 

"Nance, come on."

"Do you want this to be the first thing the case worker sees?"

Bill spread his hands wide, baffled. "We're already approved, Nance. Brian's our son. It's done."

Nancy stood at the sink, back to him, and poured out the beer. She said nothing.

It took Bill a while to clue in, as it usually did. He went over to the sink and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist. “Nance, this one’s not going away,” he said softly. “It’s real this time. I promise.” 

Nancy didn't say anything. She leaned her curly head against his shoulder. 

Bill _did_ want a son, he thought. He used to want one, anyway. But he’d been in this thing solely to make Nancy happy for so long that he wasn’t sure anymore, right when a son was about to land on their threshold. 

The doorbell rang. 

“Oh!” Nancy hastily wiped her eyes, and smoothed down her sweater. “Bill, get rid of that,” she gestured at the empty beer can. 

Bill tossed the can under the sink, and went to the front door, which Nancy had already opened. “Hi, Brian!” She crouched down, cooing. “Welcome home!” 

Brian, as always, averted his eyes, shy and quiet. He clutched a stuffed rabbit tightly, playing with its ears. He wore a backpack that was much too large for a four-year-old. Beside him stood a little suitcase that Bill and Nancy had bought for him.

The case worker apologized for their tardiness. “It’s been a really hectic day,” he said. “Thanks so much for taking Holden on such late notice.” 

A teenaged boy lingered back behind the case worker, looking dispassionately at the neighbour’s Christmas decorations. His clothes were too small and out of fashion. He wore a knapsack, and carried a single, straining garbage bag. 

_Oh, so _that’s_ Holden,_ thought Bill. 

\--

They were supposed to take Brian home four days from now. The paperwork still needed to be finalized.

Early that morning, the case worker called in a restrained panic. Brian’s foster home, it had come to light, was no longer safe. (Bill knew this meant it had probably never been safe-- there are always warning signs that go ignored for years.) The foster home was no longer safe, and Brian needed his forever home _now_. And since the Tenches were already vetted, would they consider also taking in Brian’s sixteen-year-old foster brother? He needed a safe place to stay, temporarily, and there was literally nowhere else available. 

Bill, of course, had balked at it. They knew the Tenches wanted to adopt, not foster. But Nancy had hesitated, long enough for the social worker to push the idea that Brian, who was already a difficult child, had a _special bond_ with Holden, and that Holden’s presence would make the adjustment easier on Brian. 

_This had better be fuckin’ temporary,_ Bill had thought bitterly as he spent the day out looking for a bed big enough for a teenager but small enough to fit in Brian’s room, and another set of dressers. Nancy was stressed enough at the idea of Brian coming home early, before she had organized the lavish Christmas party she had intended for him, and an unexpected guest was just fuel for that fire. The thought of Holden sleeping on the couch really set her off. 

The state would reimburse them for all Holden’s costs, the case worker had assured them, like Bill would ever be able to bring up the _cost_ without Nancy completely eviscerating him. The agency was working on finding another foster home, but everyone was full. In any case, Holden had a birthday in January. At seventeen, he could apply for an independent living placement, and have his own apartment. 

They had apparently met Holden a handful of times when they had visited Brian at the foster home. Bill thought Holden was the foster parents’ biological son. He also thought he was a little weirdo, almost as quiet and avoidant as Brian, with an added veneer of teenage arrogance. 

Then he stopped thinking about Holden at all. 

Holden didn’t look so arrogant now. He looked tired, and a little dazed. He didn’t respond when the social worker addressed him, patted him on the shoulder, and left. 

“Well, come on in!” Nancy held out her hand for Brian to take. He kept fiddling with his little rabbit, and didn’t look at her. 

Holden stepped forward, put his free hand gently on Brian’s head. “Go inside, Brian,” he said, in a voice far less squeaky and petulant than Bill was expecting. “This is your family now.”

Your family. Not ours. 

\--

Bill felt pretty useless as Nancy showed the boys to their room. He sat in the living room without a beer and looked down the hall. Holden stood awkwardly in the hallway, still clutching his garbage bag, as Nancy fussed over Brian. 

She poked her head out into the hallway. “What do you have there, Holden?” she asked gently. 

“It’s just my clothes and things,” Holden mumbled. 

“In a garbage bag?” Nancy’s voice was soft and stricken, like she couldn’t imagine a world where a child’s belongings were treated like garbage. Bill, of course, had never told her about all the times he’d seen children treated far worse. 

Holden shrugged. 

“Well, you can put your things by the dresser for now.” Nancy pointed it out. “Then you and Brian can wash your hands and we’ll all have dinner. How’s that sound?”

Holden stared at the floor. “Thank you, Mrs. Tench,” he said. 

Nancy looked bewildered as Holden disappeared into the little bedroom. _Mrs Tench_, like she was some school teacher. She looked at Bill. 

He shrugged. 

Nancy scowled. “Bill, could you at least set the table or something?”

Bill bit his lip and got up and went to the kitchen. His father had never set the damn table. His father hadn’t lurked around some falsely cheerful welcome home party for any of his damn children. His father may as well have not been there at all, and Bill turned out just fine. He felt wholly unnecessary to this endeavour. 

He set the table, and he heard Nancy cooing over the boys as she showed them the bathroom and got them to wash their hands. Like a sixteen-year-old needs to be told how to wash his damn hands. The oven timer dinged, and Bill got out the shepherd’s pie, and put it on the table to cool. 

Nancy brought the boys back into the kitchen. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie,” she said, smiling desperately. She kept looking down at Brian, her eyes big and soft, looking like she was about to melt. “Brian, I have a special chair for you.” She crouched down and put her arms out. 

Brian shied away from her, pressing closer into Holden’s side. 

“I can do it,” Holden mumbled. He picked Brian up and put him in his booster seat. 

“Thanks, Holden,” Nancy said, her voice slightly terse. 

Holden only shrugged. He stood behind Brian’s chair and stared at the shepherd’s pie. 

Bill sat at the head of the table. He nodded at the empty seat to his right. “Got a place over here for you, kid.”

Holden looked startled. After a moment, he nodded, and went to sit across from Brian. 

Nancy dished out the food, and brought over drinks, and sat next to Brian. She mushed up his food for him. 

Holden stared down at his meal silently, eating without any noise. Even the clinking of his utensils seemed muted. The only sound was Nancy gently speaking to Brian, trying-- and failing-- to get him to eat.

“Mrs. Tench?” Holden suddenly said. “He can feed himself.”

Nancy looked up sharply.

“I only mean...” Holden looked deeply embarrassed. “He doesn’t like it when people hover over him. I think it makes him nervous.” 

“I see,” Nancy said. She leaned away from Brian slightly, but seemed unwilling to go any further. 

“And...” Holden swallowed, and stared down at the table. “He won’t eat it all mashed up like that. He wants all the colours to be separate, or he won’t touch it.”

Nancy frowned. “Right.” She took away Brian’s plate and stood from the table.

“I don’t mean to...” Holden’s shoulders went up. “I’m supposed to help with Brian, right? That’s why I’m here?”

Bill felt Holden’s eyes on him. He looked over at the kid, who quickly dropped his gaze. 

“I’ll be quiet,” Holden said apologetically.

“No, no,” Nancy returned to the table with Brian’s rinsed off plate. “I appreciate it, Holden. Thank you.” But her mouth was a thin line. She gave Brian another serving of pie, and this time used her knife to separate the potatoes, peas, and meat into little piles. 

Bill kept eating, so his mouth was full and he wouldn’t be expected to talk. 

“It’s really good, Mrs. Tench,” Holden said nervously. “Thank you.”

“Please, Holden,” Nancy said brightly. “You can call me Nancy. And you’re not just here to help Brian. This is your home, too.” 

Bill frowned. 

Another long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Nancy kept giving Bill some inscrutable look, but he had no idea what he should be doing. He wished he had a drink. 

“Brian, aren’t you going to eat?” Nancy asked gently. 

Brian knocked his plastic kid’s fork on the floor. 

“Brian,” Holden said gently, leaning across the table. “You’re being rude.”

Brian mumbled something. 

“He says sorry,” said Holden. Both boys stared straight down at their plates. “He eats better with a spoon. I think the tines on a fork hurt his mouth.” 

“Well, luckily I have a spoon right here,” Nancy said cheerily, sliding the bright green plastic kid’s spoon around closer to Brian’s hand. 

After a moment, Brian picked up the spoon and started pushing his potatoes around. 

“Brian, say thanks,” Holden prompted. 

Brian said nothing. After another very long pause, he put a small spoonful of potatoes in his mouth. 

Nancy beamed. She stroked Brian’s hair softly, and looked happier than Bill had ever seen her. 

_Well,_ he thought. _Maybe this’ll be worth it after all._

“I made gingerbread cookies,” Nancy said. “After dinner, we can unpack your things, and I’ll make some hot cocoa to have with the cookies. How does that sound?” 

Brian didn’t respond. 

Nancy glanced over at Holden. When he noticed, he looked up in surprise. “You-- you mean me, too?”

“Of course,” said Nancy. 

“Oh. Yes. That sounds nice. Um, I’ve finished eating. I could go unpack my things now, if you want?” 

“We’re having dinner, Holden,” Nancy said. “Stay and talk with us.”

Holden looked confused. 

“There’s so much we want to know about you,” Nancy continued. “Right, Bill?”

Bill blinked at her. “What?”

Nancy narrowed her eyes. “All the questions we had for Holden?”

“Oh,” said Bill. “Yes. Like...”

Nancy swallowed a sigh. “You have a birthday in a few weeks,” she said. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Holden furrowed his brow. “Not really,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s not important.” 

“Sure it is,” said Nancy. 

“I mean... it's kind of an inconvenient time.” 

“Well, we’ll at least go to a nice restaurant or something,” said Nancy. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want?”

Holden only shrugged once again.

Nancy gave Bill another one of those looks. 

Bill cleared his throat. “Are you excited about school? Graduation’s coming up pretty fast, huh?”

Holden looked like Bill had just asked him a question in ancient Greek. “I suppose I’m excited for graduation,” he said. “That’s not for a long time, though.”

“Year and a half,” said Bill. “You don’t get that time back. You should enjoy it.” 

Holden stared at his food. “It’s three and a half years,” he said, very quietly. “I’m only in ninth grade.” 

Nancy and Bill looked at each other in shock. 

“Ninth grade,” said Bill. “Not eleventh?”

Holden shrank even further into himself. “I was held back a year,” he mumbled. “When I entered foster care.” 

“But you’re turning seventeen next month,” said Bill. 

Holden looked up again. “I’m turning _sixteen_,” he said. 

“Hold on now,” said Bill. “The case worker said you were sixteen, and when you turned seventeen you’d be eligible for independent--”

“Bill!” Nancy cried. 

“I’m _almost_ sixteen.” Holden glared at Bill. “So unfortunately, you’re stuck with me for another twelve and a half months.” 

“You watch your tone, kid.”

“Bill, stop it!” Nancy put a protective hand on Brian’s head. 

“I’m sorry you were misled,” Holden said forcefully. “Mr. Porter isn’t my case worker. He’s Brian’s. I’ve never met him before. And if he told you I would only be here temporarily while they find another foster home, I might as well disabuse you right now. They won’t find another home. Nobody’s bending over backwards for a kid my age.”

“Holden,” Nancy started.

“I’m very sorry they dumped me on you. But at this point, the only way they’ll take me out of here is if you hit _Brian_. That’s how little I matter to them.”

Nancy gasped, and put her hands on Brian’s shoulders. 

“But yes, Mr. Tench, when I’m seventeen I can move into my own place, and finish high school by myself. I’m counting the days just as much as you are.” He stood abruptly, and his voice shook. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Tench. It was lovely. I’m sorry for my outburst. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go sort out my things now.” 

Nancy nodded, stricken, her face pale. 

Holden pushed his chair back in gently, and quietly left the room. 

Bill snorted. “I knew taking him in was a bad idea.” 

“Bill!” Nancy looked furious. Brian covered his ears and rocked back and forth quietly, his food half-eaten. “How could you do that?”

“I was just trying to get the truth,” said Bill. “He was the one who had a tantrum about it.”

_"He_ never lied,” Nancy hissed. “I know this wasn’t what we expected, but God, Bill, can you have a _tiny_ bit of empathy?”

Bill scowled. 

Nancy petted Brian’s head. “I’m going to try and give Brian a bath. Do the dishes, please. And put on the hot cocoa, will you? I would really like it if the boys could have some dessert tonight.” 

She cradled Brian in her arms and carried him off. 

Bill went and got a beer, and drank the entire thing standing up before he started on dishes. It might not have been responsible, but what did it matter? An hour into it, and he'd already tanked his chances at winning _father of the year._


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill makes some phone calls and learns more about Holden.

Bill had booked off all his remaining vacation days-- but they started later in the week, closer to Christmas. Even though Brian had arrived early, he still had to go in to work on Monday for a deposition, and for a million other tasks that had to be done. 

Wendy was in the office. She had a luxurious academic holiday schedule, so even though she wasn't officially joining them full-time until the new year, she was in Quantico for an entire month. 

"Don't you have family to spend the holidays with?" he asked.

"No," she said, very matter of factly. 

One thing Bill appreciated about Wendy was her no-nonsense nature. There was never any deflecting about her personal life, or lack thereof. He'd seen her get plenty of grief from baffled agents who didn't grasp that she could be unmarried, working, beautiful, and content. When they learned she was consulting of the BSU's work on deviant behaviour, sometimes the pieces fell into place.

"Oh." While drinking her tea, Wendy looked like she had suddenly remembered something. She followed him, and stood in the doorway of his office. "Are you ready for.... Bobby?"

"Brian," said Bill. "He already came home, yesterday."

"Really?" Wendy frowned. "For some reason I thought you were getting him later this week." 

"He arrived early, as I'm made to understand children do sometimes."

"On a Sunday? I didn't know child services worked on weekends."

"You don't have to pretend to care about this," said Bill.

"I do care," Wendy said, in the same tone she used to talk about gruesome murders. "I'm just not sure how to relate."

Bill shrugged, and picked up his phone, which Wendy took as a signal to leave, probably with some relief.

Bill called the adoption agency, and hung up on the third ring. After considering calling child services, and figuring the front desk would be closed (it seemed every government agency took a long holiday, except whichever one Bill happened to be working for) he called Brian's case worker directly.

"Hey, what the hell," he said after Mr Porter answered.

"Excuse me?"

Bill took a long drag on his cigarette. "This is Bill Tench. Brian's dad." 

"Oh!" He heard the shuffling of paper. "Right! You're calling about that other kid. Let me see if I can find his file. Holden… who?"

"Holden--" Bill realized he didn't know the kid's last name. "He said you weren't his case worker. He also said he's only fifteen and that means he can't move out on his own. So I'm thinking, what the fuck kind of clown school operation is this, you know?" 

The man on the other end sounded harried. "Ah… he didn't happen to mention his case worker's name, did he?"

Bill angrily stubbed out his cigarette. "Fuck's sake," he muttered.

"Hey, uh, Mr Tench, can I call you back?"

"Fine."

He went to his deposition that morning, and then sat with Wendy and went over their plan for the study in the new year. He promised Nancy he wouldn't leave town for work-- unless absolutely necessary-- for at least a year. So his involvement in road school would have to be limited to towns in the tri-state area. Ditto prisoner interviews, which limited their pool somewhat.

"This will give us a chance to really dig deep with our Mecklenburg inmates, at least," said Wendy, looking a little excited. "Though we should consider sending other agents out if we really want to get anywhere." 

Bill snorted. "As if I'd let Gregg near these psychos by himself. They'd eat him alive. Literally, in some cases."

"I guess we should start another round of interviews, then," said Wendy. "I'll talk to Shepard about the budget."

"We'll both talk to him," said Bill. "He's wanted to see me with a son almost as much as Nancy did. I think he'll be amenable." 

Wendy gave him a small, professional smile. "I have to say, it's refreshing to see a man make work accommodations for his child. Usually that burden falls to women exclusively." 

Bill shrugged. "Nancy quit her job." 

"Yes, but she wanted to, correct? My understanding is that she had always planned to take time away from work. Men usually don't consider that. I'm impressed, Bill. It's very feminist of you." 

"Please don't," Bill grumbled.

Wendy's smile grew, almost threatening to dimple. "Better you than me," she said. "I wouldn't give up a minute of this for a child."

_You’re not the one talking to these monsters directly,_ Bill thought. 

A fax came in, about a murder in Charlottesville that the local PD wanted Bill to take a look at. A young man, 18 years old. It was an atypical victim, for the types of cases Bill usually consulted on: a clean-cut college freshman from a white, middle class family. He still lived at home. The perpetrator was almost certainly a peer. Bill curled his lip and wondered why they were bothering him with it, if it was that obvious. Kid probably got involved in drugs, or stole some girl away from the wrong guy. 

Before he could look much further into the case, his desk phone rang. 

"Special Agent Tench."

"Agent Tench, hello," a woman said. "My name is Natalie Wong. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you. I'm calling about Holden Ford."

"Oh." Bill had forgotten he'd even made that phone call at this point. It's like he'd get down to the BSU and the rest of his life would cease to exist. "I was speaking to a Mr Porter earlier."

"Yes, that's my colleague. I'm Holden's case worker, we can talk directly from now on. First off, thank you so much for taking Holden, and at such short notice. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there to facilitate. Darn it, hold on."  
  
It sounded like she was muffling the phone with a hand, and talking sweetly to some children, asking them to be quiet.

"Are you at home?" Bill asked when she came back. 

"No, I just have some guests in the office here until I can find them a place to stay. Hey, you don't want to take in three more kids, do you?" 

Bill frowned. They didn't have a place for kids to stay in the meantime? Not even a daycare? 

"That was a joke," said Miss Wong. 

"Oh, yeah. I got it. Listen, I was told Holden would only be with us a month or so," said Bill.

"I'm sorry about that. Me and Clark talked it over, it was a miscommunication. Clark thought he was sixteen. The thing is, I think Holden knew he was mistaken, and didn't correct him. You have to watch out with Holden. He can be a little manipulative, sometimes." 

"Great," said Bill. "So what's the ETA on a real foster home for him?"

"We'll try our best, but the truth is, there simply aren't enough homes to meet the need. Holden's a good kid, really. He's polite, and quiet; he cleans up after himself, does well in school."

"And he's manipulative."

"Well," Miss Wong hedged. "Show me a teenager who isn't. He just feels powerless. You should see some of the stuff our other kids try to pull. Agent Tench, please give it a try. If you find you really can't live together, when the school year is over and we have some graduates, we might be able to squeeze him in someplace."

"Right, fine," Bill grumbled. "I mean, I figured. I wonder what you would have done if we hadn't agreed to take him, though."

"Me too," she said. "But honestly I really do think this is going to be great for Brian. I know he wasn't my client, but I've seen how Holden is with him. They really do have a special bond. And Holden's come out of his shell a lot after Brian came to live with them. I think separating them would be detrimental to both boys at this point. This transition is going to be a whole lot easier on Brian with Holden there."

Bill lit a cigarette. "You don't have to keep selling me," he said flatly. "What's done is done. Is there anything else you can tell me about this kid? Maybe fax me over his file? We don't even know where he's supposed to be going to school."

"Well, I can't just fax you over his whole file, but I-- oh, hold on." Miss Wong must have covered the phone again, and was now scolding her child guests a little more forcefully. Bill leaned back in his chair and savoured his smoke. "Sorry about that, Agent Tench. What I can do is extract everything relevant and send it over. I still have to change all his appointments, his orthodontist and therapist were in Lynchburg, but--"

"Therapist?" Bill sat up again.

"Yes, he was seeing her once a week. We're trying to find a new therapist in Fredericksburg, or at least Quantico or Richmond or somewhere, to make it easier for you. An orthodontist is easy enough to find. He needs braces, it's been put off long enough." 

Bill scowled. "What if you can't find anyone close?"

"Well, the Lynchburg therapist's doors are still open," said Miss Wong.

"Yeah, but once a _week_? Who's going to take him?"

Miss Wong was quiet a moment. "Well, we hoped you or your wife could, but if you can't, I'll take him. Oh! And I have to tell the Lynchburg school, and enroll him in school there…" The sound of her scribbling something, a note to self. 

The children in Miss Wong's office started whining again, and Bill somehow felt like her promise to shuttle Holden around was not going to amount to much. "Does he _have_ to go to therapy?" he asked.

"We're covering all his costs, Mr Tench," Miss Wong said pleasantly. "And if you do have to drive all the way to Lynchburg, you can submit your gas receipts." 

"It's not that," Bill sighed, feeling like a piece of shit. "I'm just a little confused about my responsibility here. He's living under my roof, but I'm just now being told he's supposed to go to therapy?" 

"You're not his father, Mr Tench, and nobody is asking you to be," said Miss Wong. "He just needs a safe environment for the time being. We'll take care of everything else. Hold on… listen, I'll extract from his file and send it over. Can you give me a fax number? Is it for your office or home?"

Bill gave her the BSU fax number, and his home number and address. He told her he would share all the details with Nancy, and share Miss Wong's number if Nancy wanted to talk to her.

Then he called Nancy, but the phone rang to no answer. She had said she was going to take the boys to buy new clothes, considering the frankly pitiful amount they'd arrived with. (Apparently Holden didn't even have a toothbrush.) 

Bill went to catch a lecture one of his old colleagues in organized crime was giving-- it was the last teaching day of the year. Then he came back to do what he always did when he was restless and needed a distraction. He looked at a crime scene.

The dead boy in Charlottesville still seemed pretty cut and dry from his earlier first glance. The victim had been stabbed several times in the chest, and was dumped face down in the field. He had defensive wounds on his hands, so he was conscious when it happened. Toxicology didn't find anything that unusual in his blood-- a little alcohol, a little marijuana. He was most certainly killed in a different location and then dumped, but there were no witnesses near the field that could've seen a vehicle. Any number of things might have happened. 

Something about his pose bothered Bill, though. He made another phone call.

"Detective Art Spencer," the other man answered.

"Hey Art, it's Agent Bill Tench. From the FBI. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh hey, Bill. Not at all." 

"Listen, were you telling me about an unsolved case in Fredericksburg, a young man dumped in a field? About 18 years old?" 

A pause on the line. "Uh, do you mean Eric Reed? From last year?"

Bill sat up straighter. "Was he dumped face down?" 

"Yeah. We solved that one, though."

"You did? Was he stabbed?"

"No, no. He got in a scrap with his girlfriend's daddy, and the old man thumped him too hard in the chest. Turned out Eric had an un-diagnosed heart problem. Girlfriend's daddy panicked and dumped him in a field. He cracked pretty easily. Placed him like that because he couldn't bear to see his face, he said."

"Ah," Bill said, a little disappointed.

"Why?" 

"I thought I had a lead on something that happened in Charlottesville. But I'm just seeing connections where there aren't any." 

"Maybe you were thinking of a different town," said Art. 

"Yeah, maybe. They all start bleeding into one after a while."

"I can't even imagine the kind of shit you see. Small town shenanigans are bad enough." 

Bill's entire body suddenly felt very heavy. 

"Well," said Art, "if I come across any 18 year old boys found stabbed and face down in a field, I'll send them your way. Merry Christmas!"

Bill huffed a laugh as he hung up the phone. Another unsolved case was the exact opposite of a good Christmas present. 

Miss Wong's fax came in the late afternoon, and Bill took it as an opportunity to leave early. When he got home, Nancy was in the kitchen, starting to make some kind of dough on the kitchen island.

Bill went over and kissed Nancy, and asked her how shopping had gone.

"Oh, it was fine," she said, but she sounded tired. "I thought maybe Brian would want to sit on Santa's lap, but he didn't. And the mall's so noisy. He ended up having a little bit of a tantrum."

"He did?" 

"Well, it's a lot for him. Holden helped. He's napping now."

"Holden is?"

"No, Brian. Holden's in your office."

Bill stepped back. "Why??"

"Because Brian is asleep, so he couldn't do his homework in their room. He was at the dining room table for a bit, but I think I was distracting him. He asked if there was another room he could work in." Nancy looked up at him now, eyes daring. "And I said yes."

"Nance, we talked about this. I don't want the boys in there."

"We talked about Brian not going in there." She stood up straight and put her hands on her hips. "You said you were going to bring all those case files back to the office."

"I did," Bill lied.

"And the cabinets are locked, right?"

Bill scratched his neck.

"Then what's the problem, Bill?" 

Bill thought for a second. "I'll be right back," he said.

He yanked open the door to his office without knocking.

Holden looked startled, eyes very wide. He sat at Bill's desk, a notebook open in front of him. He hastily closed the notebook, kept it hidden under his hands. "I wasn't doing anything," he said, his voice a little shaky. 

Bill narrowed his eyes at the desk. "What kind of homework they have you doing over the holidays?"

Holden's shoulders bunched up. "It's... it's a correspondence course I was taking to catch up. It's just personal finance, like balancing a checkbook and stuff. It's dumb. It's easy."

"You know you're changing schools right? We're not trucking you out to Lynchburg every day."

Holden looked at him like he was stupid, but his shoulders were tense. "I know. I thought I'd finish it and then see what the new school counsellor said."

Bill frowned. "Don't touch anything in here," he said.

He slammed the door behind him, but didn't quite cut off Holden's mocking words. "_Don't touch anything in here_."

Nancy stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed. "You don't have to scare him, you know?"

"How was that scaring him?" 

Nancy stepped forward and kept her voice low. "You know they had to leave that foster home because it wasn't safe. So I don't think throwing doors open and barking questions is very helpful right now." 

"Oh, shit, Nancy," Bill sighed. "I forgot. I'm sorry." 

"Well," she said tersely. She went back to her dough. "I don't think I'm the one you should apologize to, Bill."

Bill loosened his tie, and got himself a beer from the fridge. "I need time," he said. "This is new to me."

"I know," said Nancy. "Every time you talk to a teenager is to interrogate him. Just try to remember that this our home, not a crime scene." She turned and reached for a high cupboard, where the pierogi forms were stored. 

Bill got it down for her. "You want help with these?"

She smiled at him, genuinely, and he felt lighter after seeing it. "That'd be really nice, Bill."

Bill washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves. He wasn't really helping, though. Nancy had to roll out the dough on the forms, and Bill always put in too much filling, and the dough would break. 

After twenty pleasant minutes, Bill broached the subject of Holden again. "Did Holden tell you anything about himself today?"

"Not really," said Nancy. "He's pretty quiet. But he said he liked the Exorcist, and something called Joy Divison. And he did _not_ like Star Wars, which was apparently a very controversial opinion at his old school." 

Bill smiled wryly. "I spoke to his case worker. Got us all squared away."

"Oh! Good." Nancy went and got her little home phone directory book, and copied down Natalie Wong's information. 

Bill gave her the report Miss Wong had faxed over. "He's supposed to see a therapist once a week, but the therapist is in Lynchburg. They're going to try to find us someone closer to town. And he needs to get braces soon."

"Poor thing," Nancy murmured. She read more of the report, and made a sad little sound.

"Yeah," agreed Bill, drinking more of his beer.

According to Miss Wong's report, or whatever she could share from Holden's file that wasn't apparently classified, Holden entered foster care when he was ten. He had no siblings, and no father was ever listed on his birth certificate.

Holden was born in New York, and his mother, a known prostitute, had dragged him all over the eastern seaboard. They'd lived their last two years together in Norfolk, Virginia, near the naval station, until Holden's mother abandoned him.

At ten years old, Holden still managed to feed himself and get to school for a week and a half, until a teacher noticed how dishevelled and distraught he had become. According to the teacher, Holden's mother had told him they were going to move apartments. Donna Ford was only 26 at the time. In Holden's story, she was with her boyfriend, whom Holden only knew as "No," and she had been crying. Donna told Holden to start packing his things, and wait for her. She and No were going downstairs to talk to the landlord. But she never came back. 

All the evidence, unfortunately, told a different story. The landlord said that Donna never spoke to him. Norfolk PD thought it was a clear case of child abandonment. Donna Ford was a drug user, and had been acquainted with a Noah Graham, likely "No," a drug dealer who also served a large clientele at the naval station. He disappeared along with Donna. There was no sign of a struggle, and all the cash that Donna kept stashed in their little apartment was gone.

So the police put out an arrest warrant for Donna Ford, dropped Holden into the foster system, and called it a day. No one heard a whisper about Donna Ford ever again. 

Holden had been in four foster homes before the Tenches. He barely spent more than a year in each home, and had changed schools as many times. Miss Wong underlined that he had very few behavioural issues and rarely acted out. He was quiet to the point of being antisocial. But Miss Wong emphasized again that his social skills had improved tenfold in the year he lived with Brian and started advocating for him. 

The only real altercation Holden ever had was when he was placed in a particularly religious foster home, and provoked the father, who was a pastor. But that was before he lived with Brian.

There were still no details about how this last foster home turned out to be unsafe. Bill wondered if Holden had somehow "provoked" it, and in a part of him that he was barely conscious of, wondered if Holden would provoke it in him, too. 

They heard a door softly creak and close, and Holden stepped into the kitchen, light-footed as a deer. Nancy quickly folded up the fax and tucked it into her little phone book. 

Holden followed the action with his eyes. "I finished my homework," he said. "Brian's still asleep."

"Let him sleep," said Nancy. "He had a big day. Want to sit with us?"

Holden shrugged. 

"You want a soda?" Nancy stood.

"Milk would be nice," Holden mumbled. "I can get it."

"No, no. You sit."

Holden sat on a stool at the island, his shoulders still bunched up. He didn't look at Bill, who finished his beer.

"What are you doing?" Holden asked when Nancy came back with a glass of milk, and another beer for Bill. 

"We're making pierogies for dinner. Wanna help?"

Holden nodded. Nancy explained what to do, and Holden's pierogies were a lot neater than Bill's. 

"I spoke to your case worker today, kid," Bill said.

Holden didn't respond.

"She's nice," Bill went on. "A lot better than that Mr Porter, I think."

"Yeah," Holden said quietly. "I like her." 

"She's gonna try to find you a new orthodontist here, and set an appointment for you." 

"So I get to start at a new school with braces on," mumbled Holden. "Great." 

Nancy gave him a tender look. "It won't be that bad," she said. "You're going to have a beautiful smile at the end of it, Holden."

Holden cringed bashfully, his shoulders going up. He stared studiously at the pierogi he was filling. 

Bill had already started his new can of beer. "When Nance and I were growing up, nobody had braces. They were too expensive. This one kid I knew, Ian Grange, his teeth came in so crooked, you couldn't pay a girl to kiss him." 

Nancy shot him a look, and Bill realized his poor turn of phrase.

Holden didn't seem to notice. "What happened to him? Did he get braces when he was older?"

Bill's jaw tightened. Ian Grange had died an un-kissed virgin in a trench in Korea, but Holden didn't have to know that. "Yeah, he did," he said. "It's harder when you're an adult, for job interviews and everything. They make you look like a kid." 

"I suppose being a teenager is so terrible that one more thing doesn't make a difference," Holden muttered. 

"Holden," Nancy said gently.

"Not everything's a big injustice," said Bill. "Sometimes little indignities are just a part of life."

Holden looked taken aback. He filled a few more pierogies in silence, then passed the pierogi form over for Nancy to roll a layer of dough over it. "What about my therapist?" he asked. "Is Natalie going to find another one?" 

"She's going to try," said Bill.

"It's just… I really liked my old therapist. I thought I could take the bus to Lynchburg by myself." 

"No," said Bill.

"Holden, that would take all day," said Nancy.

"I thought I could talk to my new school," Holden went on. "And I could maybe schedule it so I could have a free day, and go to Lynchburg. I could do my school work on the bus."

"It would take all day just to get there," said Bill. "You'd get home in the middle of the night. No." 

"If she can't find another therapist, I'll take you to Lynchburg, Holden," said Nancy.

"It's a two hour drive--" started Holden.

"And if I can't always do it, Miss Wong said she'll drive you," Nancy reassured him. 

"But…" Holden's brow furrowed. "Maybe when I turn sixteen, I can get my license and drive myself?"

Bill couldn't help but scoff. "So I'm supposed to teach you to drive, and give you a car now?" 

Holden looked the same way he did when Bill barged in on him in the office-- surprised, and wide-eyed, and trembling just a little. He looked very confused.

Then both Nancy and Holden turned their heads towards the hall, at a noise Bill couldn't hear. 

"I'm going to get Brian clean," said Nancy. "Then we'll fry up the pierogies together. How does that sound?"

Holden nodded silently, and Nancy left the table. Bill sipped at his beer.

Holden balled his hands up on his lap. "Mr Tench…"

"What," said Bill.

Holden flinched. "Are you angry with me?"

"What? No."

"You were angry that I was in your office. Nancy said I could use it."

"It's Nancy now?" 

Holden's eyes widened. "Mrs. Tench said I could use it."

Bill sighed. "If Nance says it's fine, then it's fine. I just don't want you boys getting into my cabinet in there."

"I know better than to snoop," said Holden. 

Bill closed his eyes and sipped at his beer.

"I didn't mean to…" Holden chewed at his lip. "I didn't mean to ask for a car or anything crazy. I was just trying to be helpful."

"I know."

"I don't want to be a burden," Holden went on. "I want to be of use."

"You can be of _use_ by not worrying so much," said Bill. "Your case worker's going to take care of it. And maybe you'll like your new therapist better. And if not, well-- that's life."

Holden nodded, and stared at the table. "I just don't… I don't really understand what I'm supposed to be doing here."

Bill pulled over a bright orange Tupperware bowl that had some leftover pierogi filling in it. "You're supposed to go to school and stay out of trouble," he said. "That's all."

Bill started helping himself to the raw bacon and potato mix, spooning it up on his fingers, when he felt a hand on his thigh. 

He dropped the bowl and looked up in shock, speechless.

Holden stared at him, his eyes wide, like a scared animal. The boy pushed his hand further up Bill's thigh.

Bill knocked Holden's hand off him like it was a venomous insect. "What-- who--" 

Holden's mouth popped open, and his breath was shallow. If he was trying to say something, it wasn't coming out. He just stared at Bill like he had been drugged. 

Bill had so many thoughts running in his head. He probably should have said one of the kinder ones. But what he did say was: "Never, ever do that again."

Holden nodded, still gasping for breath. He was somehow sweaty, and Bill could almost hear his heart pounding. Holden's eyes darted around the room. Bill had seen this look before, on the faces of guys like Ian Grange. A soldier calculating where it's safe to step.

The kitchen, living, and dining room were all open. No privacy there. The master bedroom was off limits. Bill had already shown that he'd barge unannounced into his office at any point. The only place Holden had was a room he shared with Brian.

They heard Nancy cooing over Brian as she took him into the bathroom and closed the door. Holden took his chance. He darted from the kitchen like the devil was after him.

Bill covered his face. "What the fuck," he muttered. He glanced at the clock. It was coming up on 6:00. 

He'd almost gotten through his second day of fatherhood without fucking up. But only because he'd been at work for most of it. 

\--

The next morning, Clark Porter came over to finalize the paperwork on Brian's adoption. Brian even got a brand-new birth certificate. He was legally a Tench son, and everything pertaining to him prior to the adoption was now sealed (such as that information existed to begin with.) 

This meant Bill could do some digging in relative safety.

In the file she'd sent over, Miss Wong gave Bill the names of Holden's previous foster families, but no way to contact them. He knew the family in Lynchburg who had fostered Brian, though, and that was the one he was most interested in, so he started there.

"Detective Art Spencer," the familiar voice answered the phone. 

"Hey Art, it's Bill."

"Hey, Bill. You find another dead boy?"

Bill's brain stuttered for a second, trying to catch up. "No, I didn't. Did you?"

"No, that was a joke. Wasn't a very tasteful one, now I think about it. What's up?" 

"I'm chasing a new lead. Different case. I'm trying to find out if some of my potential suspects have ever been reported for child abuse. Do you know anyone at Lynchburg PD? Or in Norfolk?" 

Art didn't know anyone in Norfolk, but was close to a few guys in Lynchburg. Bill gave him Brian's foster family's information to run past them, and Art promised he'd get a call if there was a hit. 

Bill didn't feel great about fudging the truth like this, and abusing his power to get information. He worried a little that someone at Lynchburg would connect what he was trying to do with his adoption of Brian-- the paperwork was only finalized that very day, and maybe the sealing of the records would take a little longer to go into effect.

But _someone_ had clearly done something to Holden. And if they had done a fraction of the same thing to his son, Bill was going to burn down their house while they fucking slept inside it.


	3. Christmas, 1976

“What kind of church is it?” asked Holden.

Nancy was all gussied up in her best-of-Sunday-best, complete with a little hat. She’d only worn that hat on Easter Sunday before, not even on Christmas Day, but this was a special Christmas. She even had gloves. Nancy didn’t wear a lot of dresses, but when she did, she went all out.

Bill fucking _loved_ how she looked in that outfit.

“We’re Lutheran,” said Nancy. She sat in the passenger seat, adjusting those little white gloves. 

“Is that like Catholic?”

Nancy turned in her seat to look at Holden. “Was your last foster family Catholic?”

“They were, and the first one was. The other two were Baptist.” Holden said it so matter-of-factly, a picture of calm. He said everything like that. 

Bill glanced at the rear view mirror. Traffic was quiet, and so were the boys. Nancy had bought them both formal clothes for church, shirts and suits. Bill had started the car early, and it was toasty warm, so their winter coats— also brand-new, as they hadn’t come with any— were folded on their laps.

Bill had expected grumbling from both boys when Nancy got them up early and had them get dressed. He didn’t think any child looked forward to church in the morning, especially when they _could_ be opening presents, but neither of them seemed that interested in Christmas. Maybe Brian wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but Bill thought four years was certainly old enough to get excited about presents. 

Brian had looked deeply unhappy in his little suit, but he was as quiet as ever. He endured it without complaint, though he sometimes fidgeted uncomfortably. 

Holden, on the other hand, seemed weirdly at home in the formal clothes. There was no exasperated teenaged tugging at his collar. He fiddled a little with the cuffs at first, but that was all. He and Brian both sat up very straight in the back seat of the car, perfectly behaved. Bill wasn’t sure what to think of this. He supposed he didn’t have a lot of exposure to perfectly behaved people, children or otherwise. 

"What’s a Lutheran mass like?" asked Holden.

"We call it service," said Nancy. "I went to a Catholic mass once with a friend from nursing school. It won't be too different to what you're used to."

"Do you have to say confession?" Holden asked, his tone conveying nothing.

"Only if you have something you want to confess," said Nancy. She turned back to smile at him encouragingly.

In the rear view mirror, Bill saw Holden looking dispassionately out the window.

"Do Lutherans believe in transubstantiation?" he asked, after a pause.

"What?" asked Bill.

Nancy flashed Bill an amused smile. "No, Holden," she said. "We believe in the sacramental union."

"So consubstantiation," said Holden.

"Yes, but _we_ call it the sacramental union."

"What?" Bill asked again. 

"Catholics believe that the eucharist becomes the actual, physical flesh and blood of Christ," Nancy explained, pitching her voice low at _flesh and blood_ for, presumably, Brian's sake. "We believe that the body and blood of Christ are present alongside the bread and wine at the same time."

"That's even dumber,” Holden mumbled very quietly, quietly enough that he must’ve sincerely thought Bill and Nancy couldn’t hear. 

Bill would have told him to knock it off or show some respect, if it hadn't elicited a snort of laughter out of him. He bit his lip and kept his gaze on the road, but he knew Nancy was rolling her eyes.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Holden," said Nancy. "But you're welcome to try.” 

"Okay," said Holden.

Another long stretch of silence. 

"Did you go to church in Lynchburg?" Bill asked, after trying to judge whether this was a good way in to the real questions he wanted to ask.

"Yes, but I didn't take the eucharist. I wasn’t baptized.” 

"Never?" asked Nancy.

A thoughtful pause. "My mother may have baptized me," he said. "I think my grandparents were Catholic. But I never met them. She barely ever talked about them.“ 

Bill tried not to scowl. That wasn't the direction he wanted to go in. "In Lynchburg," he said, "did they baptize Brian?"

"Yeah, because he’s so little. He went to Sunday School, too. Do you remember Sunday School, Brian?" 

Silence. Beside him, Nancy smiled. "He's nodding," she told Bill. He glanced up in the rear view mirror, but he didn't see it in time.

"I like church," Brian suddenly said. 

Bill and Nancy exchanged a delighted look. 

"I think you'll like our church too, Brian," she said.

"Does he have to be baptized again?" Holden asked. 

"I think so," said Nancy. "It'll be fun." Her shoulders went up a bit, and she bit her lip, and Bill knew what she thought about-- the long lace and silk christening gown she had made during her first pregnancy, the one that had lasted the longest; the little soul she planned to present to God in the finest clothes she could make. That gown was still stored in the attic somewhere, but it was for a baby. Brian wouldn't be held over the font in a long gown. He'd probably just wear his suit. 

"Did you like going to church, Holden?" Bill asked.

In the mirror, Holden shrugged. "They didn't make me go all the time," he said. "They were nice." 

"They were nice, huh?" Bill tried to keep his tone light. "Nicer than the other families?"

"Bill," Nancy said, quietly. She adjusted that little hat of hers.

Holden looked out the window. "Yeah, I guess,” he finally said.

None of the men in the Tench family were particularly enthusiastic about church that morning, but to their credit, none of them fell asleep or fidgeted too much. Holden amused himself with the hymnal before service began, and Brian with the stuffed rabbit that Nancy had let him bring along. 

Bill wasn’t a very good Christian, if those things are judged by worship. He couldn’t remember the last time he prayed-- he never got any peace from it. But he obeyed the law, paid his taxes; tried to keep his promises, tried to right the wrongs he saw. That was going to have to be enough. It was all he had to give.

Apparently a Catholic mass was close enough to Lutheran service that Holden knew some of the responses and prayers, and he mumbled through them out of either habit or a desire to please Nancy. And he sang along softly to the more well-known hymns and Christmas songs.

“You have a beautiful voice, Holden,” Nancy said afterwards. She carried Brian, who looked weary, and she patted Holden gently on the arm. “You should really think about the joining the choir.”

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Oh, Holden,” said Nancy. “Bill look, here’s the Johnsons. Let’s say hello.”

Everyone gathered in the church’s reception hall, where coffee and donuts were spread out, and Nancy could not wait to introduce her new son to everyone. 

_Who the hell are these people?_ Bill thought. Surely he didn’t skip church _that_ often. He did dad chores, mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters, but he realized he only knew the names of the people who lived in the house on the east side of them. He couldn’t even picture the people who lived on the west side. _Please don’t make me talk to everyone_, he prayed to Nancy, knowing it was pointless. 

Soon he shook hands and made small talk with couples that Nancy assured him he’d eaten meals with before. Nancy was glowing with joy, talking about how Brian had come early and how happy they were, how much fun they’d had the last few days.

“How’s Quantico, Bill?” a man in spectacles and a sports coat said— George Collins, Bill thought was his name. 

“Great,” said Bill. “Busy.” He glanced around, and saw that Holden sat at the side of the room with some teenagers. Well, not _with_ them. The other boys were joking and horsing around, and Holden sat on the end of a row of chairs, staring into space. 

“What do you do up there again?” asked George.

Bill opened his mouth. 

“Bill used to teach _road school_,” Nancy said, shouldering in front of Bill deliberately. “He was teaching local cops about new methods.”

“Oh!” George and his wife (Carol?) looked suitably impressed. 

“But he’s staying local now,” Nancy went on, completely barrelling past the psychological research. “No more time on the road. He’s training new agents to do it instead.”

“Ah, management,” said George. “Moving up in the world!”

“Yup,” said Bill. He sipped at his terrible coffee. He wished there was alcohol at this thing, but had to admit it was too early. 

“This must be Brian,” Carol(?) cooed. “What an angel.”

“Thank you,” Nancy smiled in a way that Bill hadn’t seen in years. It was a really good smile.

“We were praying for you, you know,” Carol went on. “After all those little tragedies. I hope you find happiness with him, even though he’s not really yours.” She gave Nancy a look of pure pity. George nodded along, mouth pursed in that especially stupid way suburban husbands do it sometimes.

Nancy looked like she was gritting her teeth. “Thank… you,” she choked out.

“Honey, look,” said Bill, putting his hand on the small of her back. “There’s the Randalls.” He smiled tersely. “Sorry, they’re gonna be Brian’s godparents. We need to talk to them.”

He steered his wife away from that pair of morons in a hurry.

“Can you believe that?” Nancy asked.

“Just forget her,” he said. “She’s a bitter old hag.” 

They talked to Barbara and Chris Randall, who were thrilled to meet Brian, and then continued on this interminable social circuit. Nobody asked about Holden. They must not have realized Holden was with them. Soon enough, Brian started fidgeting and making unhappy noises. He stood at Nancy’s side now, but kept trying to pull away from her grip. He covered one ear with his other hand, and looked like he was about to start crying. 

“Nancy?” Holden said gently, appearing out of nowhere. “There’s too many people. It’s too noisy for Brian. ”

_Him and me both,_ thought Bill.

Nancy looked stricken. “Oh, Brian. Just a little bit longer, okay?” 

“We don’t have to leave. I can take him outside,” said Holden. “He just needs some quiet time.” 

Nancy frowned. 

“I’ll take them,” said Bill. “I could use a smoke. You stay here and catch up with your friends.” He kissed Nancy on the cheek while Holden crouched down to pick Brian up. “Take as long as you want.” 

He got their coats and found Holden waiting for him by the entrance of the church. Brian tried to wriggle out of Holden’s grasp, and cried freely now, verging on full on sobs. 

“We won’t be indulging a lot of these tantrums, you know,” Bill said.

“It’s not a tantrum,” Holden said. When he wasn’t mumbling, his voice was barely any louder, soft and even. “It’s just too much for him.” 

Bill led them outside. The church had a wide yard, and there was a bench near the nativity scene. There was snow on the ground, but it was cloudy, so there wasn’t any glare, and it wasn’t too cold. Holden set Brian down near the bench. The boy was still almost-sobbing, but did seem calmer now that he was away from the crowd, gaze fixed on the small field of even, white snow in front of him. 

“His jacket?” Holden asked. Bill gave it to him, and Holden wrapped it around Brian like a cape, fastening one button under Brian’s chin.

A sudden flash of anger surged through Bill. Who was this little twerp to _instruct_ Bill like he was a goddamn teacher’s aide?

Bill crouched down, too. “Brian, put your mitts on.” He grabbed at the mittens that were attached to Brian’s coat sleeves and tried to put the boy’s little hands in them. 

Brian whined, fat tears running down his cheeks, and yanked his hand out of Bill’s so hard Bill thought he might hurt something.

Holden sighed. “He doesn’t want—” 

“I can _see_ that,” Bill snapped. “I’m his dad. If he wants to play in the snow, he’s gonna wear his mitts.”

Holden flinched. He stared sulkily at the ground. “Fine,” he said after a moment. He got up, mumbling to himself. He spread his coat out on the ground behind Brian, and went to sit on a bench by himself, hands balled up in his lap.

Bill scowled. “Put your coat on, Holden.”

Holden just turned his head away. 

“Jesus,” Bill muttered. “Like I needed _two_. Brian, put your mitts on!” 

He grabbed Brian’s hands, mindful of his strength, and tried to slip them into the scratchy, wool mitts. Brian’s sobbing and whining only intensified. His face was red and blotchy, and his breaths were so fast and deep that Bill started to get worried. 

“Come on, kid,” Bill tried. “Please.” 

Finally, Brian wrenched his hands out of Bill’s grip so hard that he stumbled back and fell on his butt, right on top of Holden’s coat. He flopped over, rolled onto his front, and sobbed loudly, kicking his little booted feet with fervor. 

Bill sat back on his heels, stunned. 

Holden was still looking away on the bench. 

Bill gave up. He went and sat on the bench, with as much space between him and Holden as he could get. He lit a cigarette. Brian kept carrying on.

“Do we have to go to church every Sunday?” Holden suddenly asked.

“Nancy wants us to.”

“Do you want to?” 

“I don’t mind,” said Bill. “If it makes Nancy happy.” 

“Do you believe in God?” Holden asked. 

_Oh, Christ. This._ Bill took a long drag. “I don’t know,” he said.

Holden looked smug. “Agnosticism is philosophical cowardice,” he proclaimed.

Bill shrugged. “If you say so.” 

Holden’s mouth twitched, like he was disappointed his little teenaged barb didn’t elicit the reaction he wanted. 

“So I guess you’re one of these infamous atheists I hear so much about, huh?”

“Yes,” Holden stiffened, expecting a fight.

Bill only nodded. “It would make Nancy really happy if we came to church as a family,” he said. “But we’re human. We’re gonna miss a few weeks, and nobody expects you to go along with something you don’t agree with. It would just be nice, that’s all.”

The churchyard was quiet. Brian wasn’t sobbing loudly anymore, but his chest still heaved, and he still rolled around on top of Holden’s coat.

“Is he going to be okay?” Bill asked softly, embarrassed.

“Yes,” said Holden. “He just can’t process anything right now. Like… anything.” His knee jiggled a little. “Mr Tench, why do you want to raise Brian in religion if you don’t really believe in it?” 

“I think community’s important,” said Bill.

“Those people in there? That’s your community? You didn’t seem happy to talk to them.” 

Bill smiled wryly around his cigarette. “I said community, I didn’t say friends. Nancy has a network of people who support her here, and I would like Brian to have that, too. I don’t know as many people here because I used to go away for work a lot.” 

“What do you do for work?” Holden sounded like he had just realized Bill must have a job.

“I’m an FBI agent.” That was the simplest explanation.

Holden turned bodily, looked up at Bill in awe. “Really?”

“Yeah. You know, there’s a lot of us in Virginia.”

“I haven’t met any,” said Holden. “What— what kind of agent are you?” 

Bill chuckled. “I was in organized crime for a very long time, but I started my own unit a few years back.”

“Your _own_ unit?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“What does it do?”

“Well, I started out teaching criminal psychology to local cops.” 

Holden’s eyes went huge. “Really,” he breathed.

Bill nodded, finding himself enjoying the attention. He usually wouldn’t admit it, but he did like the attention he got when he talked about his job, which may have been one of the reasons Nancy always stopped him from doing it. “A lot of our police force are still very old fashioned,” he said. “They look for motive, means, and opportunity. But sometimes motive is elusive. So, I help them figure out different ways of looking at things.”

Holden nodded intently. “And then what?”

“How do you mean?”

“You said you started out teaching,” said Holden. “Then what happened?”

Bill sighed. “The rest of it isn’t fit for kids,” he said.

“Nooo,” Holden whined. “I can handle it. Please. I’m reading a book— I _was_ reading a book called _In Cold Blood._ Have you read it?”

_Huh,_ thought Bill. He couldn’t help a small smile. “I haven’t, but I know the case,” he said. “Clutter family, right?”

Holden nodded, excited. “I’m only halfway through. It was a library book, I had to leave it in Lynchburg. But I’m _so_ curious. Not so much about the murders themselves, that’s all just… sensationalist. But the two men, why they did it. I think they’re in love? Maybe? Or one of them is?”

Bill scratched his head.

“But I just really want to know _why_ they did it,” said Holden. “I just want to know…” he trailed off, and his gaze fell to the side. 

Bill took another long drag. “You know,” he said. “I’ve met Agent Dewey.”

Holden perked up in excitement again. “Really?” 

“I was teaching in Kansas,” Bill said. “I was consulting on a case there, and the Kansas Bureau was involved. Somebody connected us and we went for lunch. He’s been retired for a long time, of course.”

“Wow,” said Holden. “What did he say?”

Bill huffed another laugh. “It was shop talk, kid,” he said. “You’d find it boring.”

“I disagree,” Holden said, and it was so earnest that Bill had to laugh again. “So, please. Mr Tench. What’s the other thing you do besides teaching?”

Bill sighed. “That writer. The author.”

“Truman Capote.”

“Yeah. He interviewed the killers, right?”

Holden nodded. “Him and Harper Lee.”

“That’s what I do,” said Bill. “I interview killers, and collect data.”

Holden’s mouth dropped wide open. His eyes were like saucers. “What?” He finally asked.

“I go around to prisons, and I interview murderers. Well, multiple murderers. Ask them why they did it.”

“Well, that’s…” Holden blinked a few times. “That’s brilliant.” 

Bill shrugged, and tried not to preen too much.

“How did you come up with that?” Holden asked.

“I have a colleague. A professor. She studies psychopaths, but she said it’s hard to get subjects, because psychopaths don’t think there’s anything wrong with them. I consulted with her on a few cases, we kept talking about famous murderers as examples, and she knew I could get access to them, so… she eventually just badgered me into doing it.”

“That’s… awesome,” Holden said. It sounded so weird coming out of his mouth that Bill had to stifle another laugh. “Who have you interviewed?”

“No,” said Bill. “We’re not talking about this.”

“Come on,” whined Holden.

“Nancy doesn’t like it, and she wouldn’t like me talking about it with you. It’s none of your business, okay?”

“But Mr Tench—”

“Holden, I said no. Don’t ask again.” 

Holden huffed sulkily, and turned away so he was facing Brian.

“And you can call me Bill,” Bill added.

Holden didn’t respond. 

Bill watched his cigarette smouldering. It was down to the filter. He stubbed it out and lit another. He watched Brian, who now lie on his back, clumsily putting his mittens on. 

He didn’t have any other way in. Time to be blunt.

“Why did you have to leave your last foster family?” 

Silence.

Bill sighed. “Nancy and I were told that it wasn’t safe anymore. But nobody will tell us _why_. And I’m hoping that it will turn out to just be a ploy to keep you and Brian together. Because not knowing what might have happened to Brian is making me insane.”

“No,” Holden said softly. “Nothing happened to Brian. It’s stupid.”

“What happened?” Bill asked again. 

“They didn’t tell you because it wasn’t either of us,” Holden said. “It was really nothing. They were nice.”

“But something happened,” Bill said.

“One of the other kids, Darlene. She’s eight. She had problems with sleep walking. A lot of little kids do, but she was, like… every night. And last week…” he swallowed, and was quiet for a while. “Sheryl, the mom— well, _someone_ left the back door unlocked, and Darlene was sleep walking and she got out. She was missing until noon the next day.” 

“Shit,” said Bill.

“Yeah. She was fine, but… if you can’t keep a sleepwalking kid inside your house, you can’t be a foster parent.” Holden shrugged. “So they took us all away.” 

Bill scowled. “They said there weren’t any homes available.”

“No,” said Holden. “There aren’t.” 

“But they remove all of you just for that?”

“She was missing for twelve hours,” said Holden. “It’s one thing to… but to not know where your kid is for half a day...” He lowered his head even more.

Bill felt a weight lifted, a small sense of relief. But it wasn’t totally gone, given the way Holden was collapsing in on himself.

“Why are you being so squirrelly?” he asked. “She was safe, right?”

Holden’s hands gripped his knees. He shivered. Bill took off his coat and put it around Holden’s shoulders.

“I think it was me,” Holden blurted out.

“What?”

“I think I left the back door unlocked. I took out the trash and… I don’t know. Sheryl said not to tell anyone.”

“Well, yeah,” said Bill. “Because it doesn’t matter. Even if it was you, it wasn’t your fault. The parents should have checked the doors.”

“But Sheryl was always so tired,” Holden said. “And Doug was always working. I was just trying to help.” He took a shaky breath. “She could’ve been hit by a car. Or drowned. Or froze, or been taken, or—”

“Hey,” Bill said firmly. “She didn’t. She’s fine.” 

“They split us all up,” Holden said, his voice wet. “Shoved her in some other home. It was just so _noisy_ there. There were so many kids. I just wanted some space. So I said I’d take out the trash and…” he covered his face and sighed. “I got the whole house shut down. And they were the only nice ones.” 

Well, shit. Bill was not equipped for this at all. He let Holden stay hunched over himself, breathing noisily. And he figured, well, while we’re on the subject…

“Holden. About what happened the other night. With the pierogies.”

Holden didn’t have any outward reaction. 

“I’m not angry about anything you’ve done,” said Bill. “I was a little grumpy before with Brian, but that wasn’t about you. And I’m not angry about… the thing that happened in the kitchen.”

Holden’s head tilted slightly, his shoulders rising up.

_Fuck_, Bill thought. He could talk about the most heinous of violent crimes all day long. He’d gotten good at compartmentalizing. But he almost never talked to victims. Child victims in particular needed special training to interview, and it was hard enough explaining _that_ to the local cops on road school. _Kids are resilient_ was still the prevailing attitude of the day, but after Monte Rissell and all the other killers he knew who started young… he wasn’t sure anymore. Everything was so fucking _chancy_. 

“I just want you to know,” Bill started, “that you don’t have to do anything like that. I’ll never, ever expect anything sexual from you.” 

Holden’s shoulders went up even more.

“And if anybody else wants that from you— a teacher, or a social worker, anybody— you tell me, and I’ll tear them limb from fucking limb.” 

Holden snapped his head towards Bill, shocked.

“You understand me?”

Holden’s eyes were impossibly wide. “I… no? What…?” 

Bill sighed. “I’m your foster dad. I know that doesn’t make me your real dad, and I’m not trying to be. But the very _least_ a dad does is protect his kids, okay?” 

Holden’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Okay,” he said. 

“So as long as you’re under my roof, nobody lays a finger on you.” 

Holden nodded. He stared down at his hands, still balled up on his lap. 

They didn't talk for a long time. Bill smoked his cigarette. Brian sat up now, and he had put his mittens on. He gathered snow into a shapeless mound. It looked like he more enjoyed the sensation of the moving snow, rather than building anything in particular.

“I’m glad your family in Lynchburg was nice,” Bill said. “And I’m very glad they didn’t hurt Brian. But if there’s anyone else, from the other families… you can still tell me.”

“Nobody hurt me,” Holden said automatically.

Bill rubbed his face. “I know sometimes it’s… you may feel like you made a promise, or that something bad's going to happen if you tell. But you know I’m FBI now. I’m friends with almost all the cops in Virginia.” 

Holden went rigid, and his face was slightly pale. Bill filed that reaction away for later. He had no delusions about the inherent goodness of cops. But he wasn’t going to push too hard today.

“You can tell me,” he repeated.

“Nobody made me do anything,” Holden said. Adjusting his story to be slightly more truthful.

“Holden, you’re a kid,” Bill said. “It doesn’t matter. If it was an adult, it wasn’t okay.” He tossed his cigarette beneath the bench, ground it under his foot. “And it wasn’t your fault.”

Holden shook his head. Bill couldn’t tell if it meant _I disagree, it was my fault,_ or _I don’t want to talk about it anymore._

Brian toddled over to them, looking worn out and tired. He stood between them for a second, and then edged over to Holden. He put his head on Holden’s knee.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bill tried, making his voice softer. “You wanna find Mommy?”

Brian nodded silently, but didn’t move.

Eventually Holden shook his knee gently. “Go to your dad, Brian,” he said, in a very slightly snotty tone.

Brian only dipped his head lower, shying away even more.

Bill reached towards him. “Come on, slugger.” Eventually Brian consented to let Bill pick him up, cradle him in big arms. Bill patted Brian’s back. “There’s my good boy. Holden, get your coat, okay?” 

“Yes, sir,” Holden mumbled. Bill gave him a moment to pick up his coat and beat all the snow and dirt off it before they went back to the church.

—

Nancy buzzed with happiness on the car ride home. 

—

They had been planning to give Brian his presents right after church, but his tantrum had worn him down, and he was out like a light by the time they got home. Bill put him in bed, gently undressing him, and Brian never stirred. 

Afterwards, Bill immediately changed into a more comfortable sweater and slacks, but Holden didn’t even ask to change out of his church clothes. He helped Nancy in the kitchen, still wearing his tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked simultaneously older and younger that way. 

When the turkey was in the oven, and all the side dishes prepped and put aside, Nancy said she wanted to decorate a gingerbread house while they waited for Brian to wake up. She had made the gingerbread pieces the night before, while Holden and Bill had awkwardly sat very far apart in the living room watching TV. Now she spread all the candy and frosting out on the dining room table, and Holden and Bill awkwardly sat on opposite ends, following her instructions.

If Nancy was bothered by the tension between them— and she probably was— she didn’t let on. That tension had been there since day one, after all. Bill tried his best to distract her with small talk, asking her about all the people she’d caught up with at church, but never that busybody Carol Collins. 

“May I ask something?” Holden said, once the house had been assembled and the windows were on. Nancy had tasked him with cutting up mint jelly candies, and then rolling the jelly bits in sugar. She’d cut the wide ends off of ice cream cones, and was going to cover them in frosting and the mint jelly bits to make evergreen trees for the yard.

“Of course,” she said. She still wore her Sunday best dress, but had put a festive apron on top. Bill fucking _loved_ how she looked in an apron. 

“How did you two meet?” 

Nancy smiled widely. “We went to school together.” 

“High school sweethearts,” said Bill.

“Mmm, even before then,” said Nancy. She put her hand on his. “Bill’s two years older than me. When I was nine, my family moved to Ohio.”

“Where in Ohio?” Holden interrupted.

“Cleveland,” said Nancy. “That’s where Bill and I grew up.”

Holden’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Cleveland’s where all the best punk bands are from,” he said. “The best American ones, anyway.” 

Bill snorted. “Figures. Cleveland’s a hole.”

“The mistake on the lake,” said Nancy. “That’s what you always said, right Bill?”

“I didn’t say it, but I agree with it.”

“Bill and I used to go to rock and roll shows, though, when we were young. We saw Elvis at the Cleveland Arena.”

Holden pursed his lips, looking like Nancy had the poorest of taste, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Anyway, when I first moved there, I was terribly bullied. I was walking home from school one day, and these three boys on bicycles came by and cornered me. They were saying the most awful things.”

“Little turds,” Bill muttered, lighting a cigarette. 

“But Bill, my knight in shining armour.” Nancy smiled widely at him. “He came out of nowhere, and told them to get lost. They didn’t, and, well… Bill beat them up.” 

Holden’s eyes were wide and attentive.

“Then he offered me his arm and walked me home,” said Nancy. “Complete gentleman. And I’ve been in love ever since.” 

“Wow,” said Holden.

Bill coughed a little. “I don’t remember that,” he said.

Nancy tilted her head at him. “Sure you do,” she said.

“I remember Paul Stewart and his brother and that other piece of garbage they hung around with,” said Bill. “I remember them harassing you. I don’t remember that exact fight.” 

“Did you beat up a lot of kids?” Holden asked.

Bill glared at him.

“It’s more like Paul harassed a lot of girls,” said Nancy. “And boys like that never change. They’re probably at some bar right now harassing some poor woman.”

Holden nodded sagely.

“But that’s what I mean.” Nancy squeezed Bill’s arm. “You didn’t do it for _me_. You’d have done it for anybody. You were just… so _good_.”

Bill looked away and took another drag on his cigarette.

“That’s when you started dating?” guessed Holden.

“No,” Nancy laughed. “We were just kids. I had the hugest crush, but Bill didn’t know I was alive until high school.”

“I knew you were alive,” said Bill. 

“But once he did ask me out, that was it.” Nancy leaned over and gave Bill a peck on the cheek.

“You’ve been together that whole time?”

“We’ve broken up twice,” said Nancy. 

“Three times,” said Bill.

“Well, that— that time wasn’t mutual,” said Nancy.

“What happened?”

“We broke up once in high school, for a week or two. I could not stop crying. My poor father.” Nancy shook her head. “Then Bill showed up at my house with flowers, and all was forgiven. And when Bill became an FBI agent… well, I had never gone to college or anything. I worked as a car hop from high school all the way through Bill’s training.”

“A car hop?” asked Holden.

“You don’t see them very often anymore. They’d bring you food at the drive-in.” 

“Little dress and roller-skates and everything,” Bill said wistfully. 

“Stop it.” Nancy batted his arm. “Bill was going to Quantico. We were already engaged, so of course I was going to go with him. But it just made me realize that I had no back-up plan of my own. So I decided to go to nursing school. And I think…” She trailed off. “So we split up. I moved in with some of the other nurses.”

“But you were engaged,” said Holden.

“We decided if we were going to get back together, then we’d get married right away,” said Nancy. “Which is what ended up happening. But we were apart— an entire year?”

“About that.”

“Did you date other people?” asked Holden.

“A few,” said Nancy. “Enough to know that I’d made a mistake.” 

“And you?” Holden looked at Bill.

Bill sucked on his cigarette. “A few,” he said. “But mostly I just waited for Nancy to take me back. If she didn’t, I don’t know what I would have done.” 

Nancy stroked his arm and smiled at him lovingly.

“I think I understand,” said Holden. “You’d been together since you were kids, and you didn’t know who you were as adults. You needed that time to… grow? When you started your career?”

Nancy gave Bill a look that said _he’s so cute._ Bill just shook his head.

“What was the third time you broke up?” Holden asked.

Nancy sighed. Hesitated. “When Bill got back from Korea—”

“It was before I got back,” Bill said.

“Bill,” Nancy’s voice was terse.

Holden leaned forward. “Did she Dear John you?”

“No!” Nancy insisted. “But I… had a very close male friend, another car hop, who I did not realize had other intentions.”

Holden looked confused. “What does that mean?” 

“It means he was waiting for me to be killed in war,” said Bill. “And then he was going to pounce.” 

“Bill, no,” Nancy sighed. “He was a friend who had a crush on me, but I didn’t realize it. That’s all.”

Holden’s brow furrowed. “But…”

“But Bill came home and, I guess, heard some rumours, and he went over and put the fear of God into that poor boy. Which was cute when we were ten, but stopped being cute in high school.” 

Bill sighed.

“And as soon as I realized what was happening, I put an end to it with my friend,” said Nancy. “And I apologized. But Bill… wanted to punish me, I guess.”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” Bill insisted. “I wasn’t even mad at you. I understood wh— I was mad at _him_.”

“Bill, can we not do this now?” Nancy asked softly.

“Do what?” Bill scowled in confusion.

“I’m sorry I asked,” Holden said gently, hands going back to the mint jellies in sugar.

“No, it’s fine,” said Nancy. She smiled at Holden. “How about you, Holden? Do you have a little girlfriend in Lynchburg?” 

Holden shook his head. Whatever curiosity had him looking so bright earlier was gone, and he went back to slumping and staring down at the table. “No, I— I’ve never…” he shook his head again.

“Well, when you do find a girl,” said Nancy, “try to learn to talk about your feelings with her. It’ll make things a lot easier.” She stroked Bill’s arm again, and kissed him on the forehead, and went to check on the turkey.

And it was back to awkward silence between Holden and Bill.

—

Bill didn’t understand how he kept fucking up. He tried so hard for Nancy, and did everything she asked. He’d never struck another human being since that day after he got back from Korea, except in training. In the rare cases he made a pursuit or an arrest himself, he used incredible restraint. 

He was scared, if he was honest, deep down, that if he indulged the incredible violence that had lived in him since he was a kid, since his father had beaten it into him— if he allowed that violence to surface the way it had in Korea, he’d never be able to tamp it down again. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t think about it a lot. And with all this business with Holden, with Brian in the house, small and helpless and needing protection, he was thinking about it a lot more. 

—

Nancy seemed to warm up to him again as the rest of the day went on. Brian woke up, and they all gathered around the tree in the living room. (Nancy and the boys had decorated it without Bill, while he was at work, but had left the angel for him to place on top. Last night, he’d lifted Brian high and guided him to place the angel, while Nancy tried to take a picture. She’d ended up having to wipe tears from her eyes, and Holden took the picture instead.)

Brian didn’t react to all his gifts with the unbridled joy that one might expect from a child, but they at least kept his attention. The entire pile of gifts under the tree was for him— books, blocks, soft toys, trucks, anything that had caught Nancy’s eye in the past few months. He was more interested in the blocks and trucks than anything else, and he said “thank you” more often than not, sometimes with prodding from Holden.

Holden sat on the floor with Brian, and didn’t seem to expect anything at all. He took the gifts out from under the tree one by one, and helped Brian unwrap them. He ruffled Brian’s hair now and then, and gave him a few genuine smiles, and Bill had to admit that Holden was a cute kid when he wasn’t being a trying little dipshit. 

Nancy took the turkey out of the oven to rest. When she came back, she pointed at an envelope hiding in the branches of the tree. “You missed that one, Holden,” she said.

Holden took out the small envelope and eyed it curiously. 

“It’s for you,” said Bill. He put his arm around Nancy. 

Holden visibly startled. He looked at them in confusion.

“Go on,” said Nancy. “Open it.”

Holden carefully opened the envelope, taking care not to tear it. He stared at the paper inside with the same naked confusion.

“It’s a gift certificate,” Nancy explained. “For the bookstore. Miss Wong told us how much you like books. I’m sorry there wasn’t time to get you something better… but this way you can get whatever you like.” 

Holden looked up at them. “I can, like… buy a book for myself? And it’ll be mine?” 

“Sure,” said Nancy. “Whatever you want.”

Holden seemed to curl in on himself, shoulders going up bashfully. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was very soft.

Nancy sighed happily and rested her head on Bill’s shoulder. 

Bill frowned at Holden, trying to analyze that body language. When was the last time someone had given Holden a gift? What had they expected in return? And his last foster family had been the _nice_ ones?

“I’m going to set the table in a bit,” Nancy said softly. “And then you can carve the turkey.”

“Yeah,” said Bill. “I’ll do that.” 

She smiled at him. “I love you,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holden doesn't actually know anything about punk. He heard a cool girl say that.


	4. Back to Work

They drove to DC one day, to take the boys to the National Zoo at the Smithsonian. They were starting to learn Brian’s warning signs, and didn’t anticipate staying longer than an hour or two. Bill and Nancy tried to coax some response out of him, the way other kids were reaching out and loudly exclaiming about animals. Brian only stared more intently at the ones he was interested in, particularly the slow-moving chameleon in the reptile house.

Holden, surprisingly, was the difficult one on that trip. He sighed dramatically, and fidgeted, and generally broadcasted his lack of interest very loudly.

“What’s wrong, Holden?” Nancy finally asked, managing to keep her annoyance mostly out of her tone. “You don’t like lions?” 

“I like lions,” Holden said, his voice even and calm as ever, despite his clear moodiness. “I don’t think _they_ like it here.” 

The lion enclosure was a little sad in the winter, Bill had to admit, with patches of snow on the ground. The only lion currently outside was an underwhelming male sitting by the entrance of the heated den, pointedly ignoring his human audience. 

“He looks fine to me,” said Bill. 

“It’s a bit cold for lions,” Holden pointed out. 

“He’s got heat lamps,” said Nancy. 

“It’s a bit _small_ for lions.” 

“Holden, it’s just a cat,” sighed Bill. He looked down at Brian, in the stroller they’d bought a few days earlier. They’d realized, after getting Brian, that while a four-year-old might not need a stroller, having one made long days out a lot easier. 

Brian played with his stuffed rabbit, at the moment uninterested in the real animals around him. 

Holden’s brow furrowed. “Felines are higher mammals.” He almost sounded surprised at Bill. “They’re too intelligent to live like this. It’s cruel.” 

“Zoo animals have food and water,” said Bill. “What else could they want?” 

“Their needs are more complex than that.” Holden gestured at the ape house across the way. “Apes are our closest relatives, do you really think--”

“Holden,” Nancy said softly. She turned Brian’s stroller around. “How about some lunch, Bri-bear?” 

Holden blinked. Then he looked deeply embarrassed. He dug his hands in his pockets and his shoulders went up, sinking his chin deep in his jacket. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

—

Bill took the boys to the local tobogganing hill one afternoon, to give Nancy a break, and it was a relative success. Brian didn’t have any freak outs, and he seemed to enjoy himself, despite his stoic expression. But he would only sled with Bill or Holden. He didn’t want to play with the other children. 

Neither did Holden. Bill suggested that he go talk to a group of teenagers that were loitering on the edge of the park. Holden declined, until Bill amended his suggestion into an order. Holden shoved his fists into his jacket pockets, and trudged over to the other kids, grumbling. 

He stayed hanging around the fringe of the group until Bill decided it was time to take Brian home.

“Holden,” he called, gathering Brian up in his arms. He’d never seen Holden respond so quickly, hurrying back over without even a goodbye to the pack of jeering teenagers. Bill was only going to tell him that he and Brian were leaving, but Holden picked up the toboggan and started walking home. 

Bill had quietly hoped that sending Holden over to the teenagers would result in an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party, and get Holden out of the house for a while. It didn’t. He shouldn’t have expected that. Holden was polite and quiet, and exactly the kind of nerd that Bill wouldn’t have been caught dead with at fifteen.

—

The thing that occupied Holden the most was the library. Nancy got him his own library card, and the library was within walking distance. Every morning he would shovel the driveway without prompting, help with Brian, and ask if there were any other chores he could do. As soon as he was done, he’d be at the library for the rest of the day. He hadn’t used his gift certificate to buy anything yet— he was still deciding what to use it on. But he had a stack of books to amuse himself with in the meantime. 

New Year’s Eve finally came, and for once the Tenches had an excuse to not go anywhere. After Brian was in bed, Nancy got out some knitting, and Bill found _Cool Hand Luke_ playing on late night cable.

“No plans tonight, kid?” Bill asked. “No parties?”

Holden looked bewildered. “No, sir.” He sat rigidly on the other end of the couch, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He read _In Cold Blood._ Holden had not tried to revisit the conversation he’d had with Bill about his work, and was not overly forthcoming about his reading material. If Nancy asked what he was reading, he’d just give the title and no elaboration, certainly no wide-eyed expounding like Bill had seen. He seemed to take it seriously that Nancy would not want to hear about anything unpleasant.

Holden soon excused himself and went to bed, well before 11:00 PM.

Bill opened another beer and stuck his hand in the waistband of his pants.

“Bill,” said Nancy, not looking up from her knitting. “I know you’re trying with Holden. But you’re giving him mixed messages.” 

Bill scowled. “How so?”

“How could he have been invited to any parties?” Nancy started another line of knitting with a flourish. “He’s barely been here two weeks and school hasn’t even started.”

“Maybe he met some kids at the library,” said Bill.

Nancy gave him a look.

“I was just trying to show interest,” said Bill. “A kid his age shouldn’t be in bed early on New Year’s Eve.” 

“When you ask him things like that, it sounds like you don’t want him in the house,” said Nancy. 

Bill lit a cigarette, and didn’t reply to that. For all he knew, Holden could be eavesdropping.

—

Bill went back at work soon enough. His first day back was a Friday, which seemed pointless, but it was nice to get on the same page as everybody else before starting in earnest the next week. He had a long meeting with Wendy and Gregg, talking about the agents they were going to interview, and the huge stack of new subjects Wendy had organized. 

That dead boy from Charlottesville had not moved. Bill had faxed over his thoughts, such as they were, but he didn’t think they’d amount to anything. He’d asked to be notified if they solved the case or found any promising leads, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Then he put poor Craig Ward’s file in his desk. He wasn’t quite ready to disappear it into the big cabinet of cold cases with which the BSU could not be any help. 

So he was surprised to get a call from Detective Art Spencer just after lunch.

“I have a friend from high school,” said Art, “who was back in town visiting his parents. He’s a cop, too, but he lives in Bethesda now. His wife works for a big shot in DC, you know? Anyway, we were talking, and he mentioned this case from last summer that’s been eating him up, and it reminded me of the one you were calling about. That dead boy.”

Bill put on his reading glasses and got a legal pad ready. “Really,” he said. “Why's that?”

“It was a sophomore at Georgetown, just before summer break. His name was Jeremy Adams. They found him in a park in Bethesda, stabbed and face down, same as your kid. The weird thing is that his parents actually live in Bethesda, but he was living on campus in DC. He wasn’t supposed to be home until the next week.”

“Huh,” said Bill.

“Jeremy was at a party near the Georgetown campus in Washington,” Art continued. “Well, he was at the party briefly. It was mostly younger kids, so he went to buy some booze. And he never came back. But he wouldn’t have gone all the way to Bethesda, right?” 

“Right.” Bill sighed.

“Nobody has any clue where he was between leaving the party and ending up in that field,” said Art. “Now, my buddy told me this story unprompted, so maybe I’m just jumping at a coincidence…”

“No stone unturned,” said Bill. “He was a Georgetown student and his parents live in Bethesda? Must be pretty swank.”

“Yeah, they’re rich as hell,” said Art. “Buddy says they’re breathing down his neck, calling him every day. They don’t want the case to go cold and they have plenty of money. Apparently they held a big vigil in front of the police station on Christmas Day and everything. Said they’d get a private detective. Can’t say I blame them, I guess.” 

Bill dug around in his desk. “Were there any drugs or alcohol in his system?” 

“Nope,” said Art. “They’re estimating he died within 12 hours of leaving the party, I think. So it sounds like he didn’t get a chance.”

“Hmm.” Bill looked at the Charlottesville file. Craig Ward was solidly middle class. He still lived at home, and attended the University of Virginia on a partial scholarship, while working part-time. A far cry from some preppy Georgetown snot. “Do you know what Jeremy studied?” 

“Huh?” Art sounded distracted, probably carrying on another half-conversation with someone at his precinct. “Oh, I don’t know. Do you think that’s relevant?”

“Just curious,” said Bill. Craig Ward studied chemistry, before he was murdered. Could’ve done a lot of things with a chemistry degree. “Isn’t Georgetown a Catholic university?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t know if Jeremy’s family is. I don’t think you have to be Catholic to go there. You think that’s important, too?” 

“I don’t know,” Bill said, truthfully. He had no profile to build yet— besides a white man, given that the victims were white, who was physically capable of overpowering healthy young males. So 20s or 30s, probably not older than 40s. So, a lot of fucking guys. 

The stabbing, though. You have to be really committed to stab someone multiple times, especially if they’re still able to fight back. Most people’s hands would be cut to shit after the first attack, unless they were wearing thick gloves. If this was the same guy, he knew what he was doing.

“What kind of things do you look for in this, anyway?” asked Art. “I mean, they sound similar, but I’m not seeing any new leads here.”

“If there were new leads, your friend wouldn’t have had to pick your brain about it,” said Bill. “Sometimes, unfortunately, we have to wait for more bodies until we can get anything.”

“Well, I was calling to get your fax number,” said Art. “I realized I didn’t have it. It’s okay to put you in touch with my buddy?”

“Sure. I appreciate it, Art.” Bill gave him his fax number. When he went to put the Craig Ward file back, another old photo caught his eye. 

He took out the file— yet another consulting case he hadn’t been able to help with, but also hadn’t wanted to banish to the cold case cabinet. The senseless and seemingly random murder of the staff of a truck stop diner in Henderson, North Carolina. Two waitresses, two line cooks, all gunned down with a weapon that was never recovered. Excessive for a burglary, especially considering that one cash till was left untouched, and the other was busted open by force, which meant that nobody was ordered to open it for the burglars. And there were no signs that anybody tried to get into the cash office. 

For two years that Henderson diner staff lay dead in Bill’s drawer. He looked at the photos again, and read through all the reports, and waited for something to tickle at his brain, but nothing did.

He took them out into the bullpen, and interred them in the cold case cabinet.

—

Later, a detailed fax came in from Art Spencer’s buddy in Bethesda. 

Bill took Jeremy Adams and Craig Ward home with him. He locked them in his cabinet. 

—

Holden was moody on Sunday. He shovelled the sidewalk in the morning, and sulked through church, and disappeared into his bedroom as soon as they got home. Nancy and Bill spent some time playing with Brian and his blocks in the living room, and Bill at least was secretly grateful to have some time for just the family.

When Nancy put Brian down for his nap, Holden heaved a long-suffering sigh, and carried a stack of books out into the hall. “May I please read in your office?” he asked Bill.

Bill swallowed a sigh of his own. “Why don’t you read in the dining room? Or living room? Or just come watch TV with us.”

Holden hung his head, cradling his books protectively. He said nothing.

“Fine,” Bill relented. “Remember not to touch anything.” 

Holden stayed in there for the rest of the afternoon. Nancy sent Bill to fetch him for dinner, and Bill knocked first, entering only after what he felt was an appropriate pause. 

It wasn’t long enough a pause, apparently, because Holden scrambled to close a thick notebook when Bill opened the door. It looked like he had been drawing something, and the notebook was dense with ink.

Holden sandwiched the notebook between his library books and hugged the whole pile to his chest, looking up at Bill with deer in the headlight eyes. His pen rolled off the desk.

“What’cha got there, kid?” Bill asked.

“Nothing,” said Holden. “I was studying.”

“Well, it’s time for dinner. Go wash up.”

At the table, Holden picked at his food. When Nancy and Bill ran out of things to talk about, and when Nancy had run out of ways to get Holden or Brian to converse, there was a long, empty silence.

“Holden,” said Bill. “If you were at a party with some friends, and someone left to go buy some beer, how long would you expect them to be gone?”

“Bill!” said Nancy.

Holden looked up, brow furrowed. “Pardon?” 

“It’s just a hypothetical,” Bill said, placating Nancy with a hand on her arm. He turned back to Holden. “If your friend left a party to go buy beer, how long would you wait for him?”

Holden shook his head. “I’ve never… I don’t really get invited to parties.”

“See, you’re making him uncomfortable,” said Nancy.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” said Holden. “Is it for work? I want to help.” 

Nancy ran a hand through her hair, and turned towards Brian, like she was trying to ignore them.

“Imagine you’re at a party,” said Bill. “And someone said he was going to be right back, but he didn’t come back right back. Would you look for him? Would you tell someone?”

Holden blinked. “I suppose it depends. I think I would just assume he decided not to come back. Maybe if he was the host of the party I would look for him.” 

“You wouldn’t tell his parents?”

Holden looked thoughtful. “I’d have to know his parents,” he said. “And sometimes— well, I don’t _know_, but I’ve heard, that sometimes big groups of kids go to parties and they don’t all necessarily know each other. And… even if I could call his parents, I’d have to admit what we were getting up to, wouldn’t I?” 

_Fair point_, thought Bill. According to the report, over half the partygoers to have last seen Jeremy Adams alive were underage. He wondered how many kids simply hadn’t given a witness statement because they weren’t supposed to have been there. 

“Bill, we agreed no work talk at the dinner table,” said Nancy.

“I don’t mind,” said Holden.

“It’s just a hypothetical,” Bill repeated.

Nancy glared at him. “Hypothetical work talk. Holden doesn’t need to worry about that stuff. It’s his first day at high school tomorrow.” 

She smiled warmly at Holden, who immediately shrank back into himself, and lowered his head.

Bill put his elbows on the table and finished off his beer.

“You’re not excited, Holden?” asked Nancy.

“Do I really have to get braces next week?” Holden asked. 

“Yes,” said Nancy. “We’ve talked about this. If your teeth are bad enough to get braces, they’re only going to get worse. It’s better to do them now.” 

“Can’t I at least wait until graduation?” Holden whined.

“You want to get them on right before college?” asked Bill.

Holden hunched over his plate and muttered something that sounded like _as if I’ll be able to afford college._

“Holden, it’s going to be fine. They’ll barely be noticeable,” said Nancy.

Holden gave her a skeptical look. “I’m starting in the middle of the school year. Everyone already knows each other, and they’re already going to think I’m weird without the braces.” 

“If anyone makes fun of you, tell them to pound sand,” said Bill.

“No one’s going to make fun of you,” Nancy frowned. “Holden, just be yourself. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Holden didn’t answer. He pushed his food around with his fork. Nancy got up to refill Brian’s sippy cup. As she passed Holden, she ran a hand through his hair affectionately, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. He didn’t shrink back from it.

—

Bill woke up in the middle of the night. At first he was confused— he assumed he woke to take a leak, but he was usually able to sleep until it was more urgent. It was after he had used the can and washed his hands that he realized a noise had woken him. The faint thumping of a machine.

He threw on a robe, and poked his head into the hall. The only light on was the utility room by the kitchen.

He looked in on the boys’ room on the way. Brian was fast asleep, his thumb tucked into his mouth. Holden’s bed was empty, and stripped of the sheets. 

The washing machine rumbled away in the utility room. Holden sat on the floor, skinny arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were closed, like he was dozing off, but he snapped awake when Bill came near, and looked up at him with naked fear.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly.

“What?” Bill squinted into the light. “What are you doing?” 

Holden only shifted uncomfortably. Bill realized he wasn’t wearing the pyjamas Bill had seen him in after dinner, a white t-shirt and long blue sleep pants. He wore only underwear and a different t-shirt, a threadbare, flimsy thing he’d brought in that garbage bag when he arrived. 

“Oh,” said Bill. “Well, it looks like you’ve got things covered here.” He turned hastily and went back to the master bedroom. 

Nancy stirred as he got back into bed. “What’s going on?” She asked blearily.

“Holden is washing his sheets,” Bill said. 

“Oh,” Nancy frowned. “He needs his own bedroom, Bill. I don’t want him doing that stuff in the same room as Brian.”

“No, it wasn’t…” Bill sighed uncomfortably. “He wet the bed, Nancy,” he whispered. 

"Oh, shit. Poor thing.” 

“Poor thing? Nancy, he’s fifteen. He shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“Bill,” Nancy sat up. “It’s not as bad as you think. And it’s not like we weren’t expecting it from Brian.”

“Not as bad? It’s part of the sociopathy triad!” Bill hissed.

Nancy rubbed her eyes sleepily. “Not on its _own_,” she said. As much as she tried to be, she wasn’t entirely ignorant of Bill’s work. “Anyway, it could just be a fluke. It might not happen again. I used to see this at the hospital. A lot of kids wet the bed when they’re too old to, and never do it again. It just means they’re having a hard time. Changing homes and schools, and at Christmas? It’s a lot.” 

Bill sighed. He rolled over and tried to put his arm around Nancy.

“Well, did you talk to him?” she asked.

“No.” Bill frowned. “I thought it would be better coming from you.”

“I think that might just embarrass him,” Nancy said. “He’ll know you told me.”

“What am I supposed to say to him?”

“Make him feel welcome,” said Nancy. “He doesn’t feel comfortable here, and that’s partly because of you.” 

“Nancy, I’m trying,” sighed Bill. 

“I know.” Nancy leaned over and kissed Bill on the cheek. “Please, Bill. I’m sure he doesn’t want me to know about this. Go back and talk to him.”

Bill went to the utility room with an old pair of sweatpants. 

Holden stood in front of the washing machine now, like he was willing it to go faster. He shivered.

“Hey,” said Bill.

Holden looked at him like a panicky animal. His face was pale and his breath shallow. 

“You okay?” asked Bill. 

“Yes, sir,” Holden wheezed.

“You can knock it off with the sirs,” said Bill. “Make me feel like my old man.” He’d promised himself, and Nancy, that he’d do everything the opposite way his father had. “It’s all right. Here, you look cold.”

Holden hastily stepped into the too-big sweatpants, while Bill got some new bedding out from the linen closet. Holden eyed the new bedding warily.

“I cleaned it with a soapy rag,” the kid choked out. “But it’s—”

“It’s gonna take a while to dry, I know. Let’s set you up on the couch.” He gave Holden the bedding and reached into a high cupboard to bring down a spare pillow. 

Holden followed him into the living room. “I’m really sorry, Mr Tench,” he said.

Bill only sighed, and he moved the couch pillows aside to make room. “Has this happened before?”

“No, sir.”

Bill curled his lip. _Sir._ “Let’s just get you back down. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

Holden nodded. His fingers shook as he unfolded the spare blanket and sheets.

Bill tried to keep his voice soft and low. “Is that what’s got you so worked up? First day jitters?”

Holden bit his lip. Shrugged. “I’m not… I don’t know. I had a bad dream.” 

“Ah,” said Bill. He helped Holden spread out the sheet, and lay the blanket atop it.

“There was a hunter,” Holden said after a pause. “And the only way to hide from him was… to disguise my scent.” He shrugged again, embarrassed, and kept his gaze far away from Bill’s.

_Jesus_, thought Bill. “Well, there’s no hunters here. Safe and sound in the suburbs, right?” 

The washing machine finished its cycle with a loud THUNK! Holden almost jumped. 

“I’ll take care of that,” said Bill. “You get back to sleep.” When Holden didn’t move, Bill nodded meaningfully at the couch. “Come on.”

Holden hesitantly crawled under the spare blanket. 

“You warm enough?” asked Bill. 

Holden nodded. Bill didn’t believe him. He took a crocheted throw blanket off the recliner and tossed it over Holden.

“Here,” he said. “Sleep tight, kid.” 

Bill headed back to the utility room.

“Bill?” Holden looked up at him, blankets pulled up to his chin. He wasn’t breathing so shallow anymore, and his cheeks looked pinker. “Thank you.”


	5. Sweet Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tenches give Holden a birthday gift.

Later that week, Wendy and Gregg came to Bill with a proposal— that the two of them would go out into the field to interview prisoners together, and ease the burden on new hires without sacrificing the study’s speed. 

Bill nodded. “Sure,” he said. “But I want Jim Barney back.” 

Wendy gave him a flat look. “I agree that Agent Barney was very insightful, but I told you, his presence could affect response. Most of our subjects are white and more than likely racist.”

“And they’re _all_ male,” said Bill, lighting a cigarette. “Now it could be that Gregg and I are just consummate gentlemen, but I can’t be the first person to tell you that _your_ presence affects response. Right, Gregg?” 

Gregg sputtered. “I— I hadn’t noticed.”

Wendy shook her head, looking amused. “Fair enough. And I suppose if anything strange were to happen, with either Agent Barney or myself, that could be another vector for the data.” 

Bill frowned. “How so?” 

“Well, I’m only speculating at this point, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that some of these men are on the defence when the FBI comes to visit. Having someone they see as inferior and harmless, be it because of their race, gender, or what have you, might mitigate that somewhat.”

Gregg nodded. “They might not want to lock horns like some of them do with you, Bill.” 

“Right,” said Bill, politely ignoring that they never _locked horns_ with Gregg, just stampeded right over him. 

“It’s just a thought,” said Wendy. “But does Agent Barney want to come back up here?”

“He was very interested in the BSU,” Bill said. “I don’t see why that would have changed. He was open to moving up here last time. And, I don’t know, maybe after some training we can have him work out of the Atlanta office. It’s not like we don’t have plenty of killers in the south.”

Wendy nodded, looking thoughtful. “That’s a good point, Bill. And our only current black prospect is in Georgia. He might be more comfortable talking to Barney.” 

“You never know,” Bill said drily. “Maybe one day we’ll finally get a woman on our board.” 

Gregg looked confused, but Wendy only smiled. “One can dream.” 

So Wendy and Gregg went off for their first interview, and with a slowdown in murders that Bill was _not_ going to question, he went home early on Friday afternoon.

Brian must have been napping, because Nancy was in the living room having tea with a woman that looked vaguely familiar to Bill.

“Bill!” Nancy looked very happy to see him. With Holden in school, her days with Brian would have been long. She must’ve jumped at the chance to talk to another adult when this woman showed up. “Come and sit. I’ll get you a beer. You remember Miss Cook?” 

“Oh, yeah. How are you, Miss Cook?” He shook her hand, and took a seat on the couch. 

“I’m very well, thank you. It’s actually Mrs. Turner now,” she said.

“Oh!” Nancy returned with a beer for Bill. “Congratulations! When did that happen?”

“Oh, a few years ago, now. It’s all gone by in a blur.” The women laughed. “I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by, see how things were going with the house,” Mrs. Turner told Bill. 

Mrs. Turner (nee Cook) was the realtor that sold them their house over ten years ago. They still got holiday cards from her company, and in the first year she’d dropped by three or four times to “check up” on them, which had disturbed Bill a little, but was apparently normal. This was the first house they’d bought, so it’s not like he could have known that. 

“No complaints here,” said Bill.

“We switched to a tankless water heater last year,” said Nancy. 

“Oh, good,” said Mrs. Turner. “I remember I had to get the old owners to swap the heater. It kept leaking. Now you’ll never have to deal with that.” 

Bill was grudgingly impressed that she remembered the exact details of their house from so many years ago. She must have prepared. She must want to sell something.

“We’re pretty happy,” he said. “Gonna stay here another… 14 years at least, I think.”

“That’s great,” said Mrs. Turner. “I guess I wanted to drop by and get ahead of some competition. There’s a new kid on the block, and he’s very aggressive.” 

“Well, we have no plans to sell,” said Nancy.

“Yeah, but this guy…” Mrs. Turner looked momentarily disturbed, then she plastered her realtor smile back on. “You’ll probably see his flyers eventually, if he doesn’t come knocking on your door. His name is Scott Morris, and his thing is, well… I’m sure you’ve heard about asbestos.” 

Nancy put a hand over her heart. “Does our house have asbestos?”

“Nance, every house has asbestos,” said Bill. Cookies sat on a plate on the coffee table. He shoved a few in his mouth.

“Yes, Mr. Tench, that’s right,” said Mrs. Turner. “The thing about asbestos is that it’s only harmful in its fibre form, and if it’s disturbed and it gets in the air. So…” she looked thoughtful. “Unless you wanted to knock down a wall, or when you fix your roof, which you should probably do in about eight years, then you don’t have to worry about it.” 

“But if we do replace the roof…” Nancy said, her eyes big.

Mrs. Turner smiled warmly. “Then you stay with some friends for a week or two, you get professionals to do the roof _and_ do a thorough clean-up after. Asbestos is really only a threat to people who work with it in an airborne state. Trying to get rid of it is more trouble and cost than just leaving it alone. All you have to do is be careful when you’re repairing or replacing things.” 

“Okay…” Nancy pursed her lips, still looking unhappy.

“The thing is, this new guy, Scott Morris, he’s really taking advantage of all the news reports and the, uh… hysteria.” Mrs. Turner frowned. “He’s going around convincing people to sell their houses so he can remove the asbestos. All he’s really doing is releasing a bunch of asbestos around the neighbourhood, and then selling these new _asbestos-free_ houses for a huge markup. And honestly, they’re probably not any safer. I’m not convinced he doesn’t cut corners.”

“And you wouldn’t be biased,” Bill said.

Mrs. Turner smiled. “Well, of course. I feel like my business is threatened and I wanted to get ahead of it. I just wanted to give you some more balanced information, because he’s going to really lay the fear on thick.” 

“Well, I suppose we appreciate it,” Nancy said nervously. They made some pleasant adult small talk for a little while longer, until Mrs. Turner announced that she would get out of their hair.

“Thanks so much for the tea and cookies, Mrs. Tench. And please, if you ever consider selling, give me a call.” 

“We're not making any plans to upgrade," said Bill.

"But it _is_ getting a little crowded in here, I heard.” She and Nancy exchanged smiles, and then she was off. 

"While I've got you," Nancy said, putting her hands on Bill's arms. "I want to show you something." She led him to the bedroom. "I was putting away some of the Christmas decorations in the attic--"

"Nance, you know I don't like you going up that ladder by yourself," said Bill.

She waved a hand dismissively. "If I waited for you to be home every time I needed to tidy up, nothing would ever get done. If I had known about the asbestos, it would have been a different story.” She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “The walls are finished up there. And the basement. So it’s safe, right?” 

“It’s fine, Nancy.” 

“Anyway, I was in the attic, and I saw your old uniforms. Thank goodness I had them vacuum sealed.” 

"Oh." Bill didn't particularly want to see his old military uniform.

"Look what I found.” She showed him a jacket— red wool torso, black leather sleeves; _Tench_ stitched in black cursive on the right breast, an embroidered white letter H on the left.

“Well, how about that,” Bill said. 

The left sleeve of the jacket had patches for his number, 12, and four chevrons, for all four years of high school that he made the varsity football team. The last chevrons had stars embroidered in them, for the two years he made captain. The right sleeve had a JROTC drill team patch, and a patch with a torch that said “scholar athlete.” 

There was a scroll embroidered on one leg of the H, a football on the other. The scroll listed the years he’d placed on the honour roll (three of them,) and the football had the years his team won championships (the two years he was captain.) It was all his youthful achievements in one place.

Bill gently ran a finger over the letter patch. “H for Hillside High,” he said. 

“H for Holden, I was thinking,” said Nancy.

Bill dropped his hand and took a step back. “What?”

“The winter coat I got him was the last one they had in his size,” said Nancy. “It was cheap, and it’s not very warm, and it’s going to fall apart soon. This—” she hugged the letter jacket. “It’s so well made. It’ll be perfect, especially in the spring.”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re supposed to _earn_ a letter jacket. Everyone will know this isn’t his. Doesn’t he go to James Monroe? I think they wear yellow.” 

“Who cares?” Nancy scowled. “Kids wear hand-me-downs all the time.”

“I mean he’s not going to be able to wear that to James Monroe High unless he wants to get the shit kicked out of him.” 

“He can wear it on special occasions,” said Nancy, petting the jacket. “Like, I don’t know. A date, maybe.”

“A date,” huffed Bill.

“Bill, I want to give him something nice for his birthday.”

“We’re giving him a roof over his head.” Bill blinked, remembering. “_And_ his own room.”

“That’s not a _gift_.” Nancy frowned. “A gift is something you don’t need.” 

Bill swallowed a sigh. “I don’t know, Nance. It’s my old letter jacket. I earned it. I wanted to give it to Brian one day.”

Nancy levelled him with one of her looks. “You just said you thought it had gotten lost in the shuffle. Anyway, maybe one day Holden will give it to him.”

“Holden’s not going to be with us very long,” said Bill.

“Okay, Bill. Keep telling yourself that. Listen, I want to give Holden a proper gift. He’s so unhappy, and he keeps saying he doesn’t want anything. He doesn't even want to go out for dinner, or for me to make him a cake.”

“Did you make him a cake?” Bill wasn’t about to say no to cake in any circumstance.

“No,” Nancy sighed. “It really seemed to make him uncomfortable. I just dropped it.” 

“Ugh,” muttered Bill. “What an ungrateful little brat.”

Nancy glared at him. "You sound like your father, Bill.” 

Bill curled his lip. He’d officially lost the argument. He swallowed anything else he might say-- that he was already giving up his office, and now she wanted him to give up his old letter jacket, too? _Such a hardship to give up an office you never use, and a jacket you never wear,_ she'd probably say. 

"You know," started Nancy. "You gave this to me when you went to Korea."

"Yeah." 

"So really, it's mine to give, and I don't have to ask your permission at all."

Bill sighed. "I suppose that's right." 

She tilted her head. "You want to try it on, one last time?"

Bill smiled wryly. "Sure."

She helped him put it on, and it fit better than he was expecting. It was only a little tight in the shoulders and arms, and he could probably close it if he really put effort into it. 

Nancy beamed, running her hands down his arms. "Look at you," she said.

Bill couldn't help but smile back. “Holden’s gonna swim in it,” he said.

"He'll grow into it," said Nancy. "And in the meantime, he'll look real cute.” She stepped back and considered him, putting a thoughtful hand on her chin. "Hmm," she said.

Bill tugged at the jacket a bit, cocked his head. "Hey Nance, my parents are away for the weekend.” 

"Shut up," Nancy laughed. 

"Do you still have your old cheerleader outfit?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Well," said Bill. "Maybe you should go look."

"Hmm," said Nancy. "I could brave going up that ladder again, but by the time I got back down, Brian would probably be finished his nap."

"Fuck it," said Bill. He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. 

\--

They were already sitting down to dinner by the time Holden got home-- just shortly before Bill usually came home, as a matter of fact.

"I thought school finished at three or something," Bill said to Nancy, helping her dish out their casserole.

"He goes to the library after school," she explained. 

Holden looked slightly startled to see Bill home before him. "Hello sir," he said.

"Hello, Holden," said Bill. "Good day at school?"

Holden shrugged. 

“You excited for your birthday tomorrow?”

“Oh yeah,” Holden mumbled, sitting down at his place. “I’m excited to be the same age my mom was when she had me. That’s…” he looked to the side. 

Bill and Nancy looked at him expectantly. 

“Nothing,” said Holden. “Never mind.” 

“Well,” said Bill, after everyone’s dinner had been set out, and Nancy was trying to coax Brian into eating. “How’s school been going?” 

“Fine,” Holden mumbled.

“Have you made any friends yet?” asked Nancy.

“No,” said Holden, with a tone that conveyed how stupid a question he thought that was. 

Nancy gave him a look, and Holden lowered his head.

“Some of the girls are okay,” he said. “But the boys…” 

“Did they shove you in a locker?” asked Bill.

“No,” said Holden. “Is that the type of thing _you_ did, Bill?” 

“Holden,” said Nancy. 

“You should join a team,” said Bill. “That’s a good way to make friends with other guys.”

Holden made a face like he’d stepped in something unsavoury. 

“You should join the choir, or drama club,” said Nancy.

Holden cringed. “I’m just— you know, I’m behind because of switching schools so often. I just want to focus on class.” 

“Well, the teams practice outside of school hours, and having a group of guys at your back is important,” said Bill. “I credit a lot of my success to skills I learned as captain of the football team.” 

“I’m sure you do, Bill,” Holden muttered.

“Holden, there’s no need to be snippy,” said Nancy. 

Holden flinched. “Sorry,” he said. He rubbed his face. “I have a headache. I just want to go to bed early. Is that okay?” 

Bill looked over at Nancy. She looked so sad, and that made him furious.

“Fine,” said Bill. He got up to get himself another beer. 

\--

Holden usually woke up early, which was bewildering to Bill. Weren’t teenagers famous for sleeping in? But even on Saturday, on his birthday, Holden woke up before anyone else and went out to shovel the driveway buried under a fresh fall of snow. He was finished and showering before Bill even woke up. 

Bill yawned and put on his sweats. Nancy waved him into the hallway. She stood outside the bathroom door, hunched over in a universal eavesdropping pose. "Listen to this," she whispered.

“We were out on a date in my daddy’s car,” Holden sang. “We hadn’t driven very far…” 

Nancy looked about ready to melt. 

"You're never going to get him to join the choir," Bill whispered.

"Oh, hush."

"How does he even know this song?" Bill wondered. He barely remembered it himself-- a chintzy teen tragedy ballad that wasn't even that popular when it was on the radio some fifteen years ago. 

"He's got an old soul," said Nancy, like that explained anything.

“Oh where oh where can my baby be?” Holden sang, his voice clear and smooth and soulful. “The Lord took her away from me. She’s gone to heaven so I’ve got to be good, so I can see my baby when I leave this world.” 

"Well, enjoy the show," said Bill. "You better not let him catch you. I don’t think a lot of teen boys would be happy with their moms listening to them in the shower.” 

She swatted at him, and he dodged it easily. He went to check on Brian, who played with his blocks in the living room with a singular focus.

Bill made a big breakfast. He made a hash with leftover pot roast and potatoes from earlier in the week, along with scrambled eggs and bacon. He remembered too late that Brian wouldn't eat anything mixed together, and made sure he put on some toast so there'd be something besides just bacon. 

Nancy set the table and put out pitchers of milk and orange juice for the boys, and a pot of coffee for her and Bill. She beamed when Holden came into the dining room, his hair neatly swept to the side, his shirt neatly buttoned up.

"There's the birthday boy," she said.

Holden stared at the ground. “Is there anything I can help with?” His voice was once again quiet and soft, a stark contrast to his shower singing voice.

"No, you just sit," she said. "Bill made us breakfast." 

"Eat up," said Bill, giving Holden a generous portion of the corned beef hash. "Last chance before braces."

"Yeah," Holden said glumly. "Thanks."

They ate quietly, the same scene as usual— Nancy coaxing Brian into eating, Holden avoiding conversation. Bill took a shower while Nancy and Holden did the dishes, and then it was time for Holden’s appointment. 

The fact that he was getting his braces on his birthday was a coincidence, and not one that he took lightly. But Holden had given up on complaining about it. He stood by the front door, staring into space, his usual sad sack body language, while Nancy put on her shoes and coat. He had his knapsack on his back.

“What’s all that?” Nancy asked. “In your bag? You don’t need to bring anything.” 

Holden shrugged. “Some books.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be able to read while the orthodontist is working,” said Nancy.

“It’s not that,” said Holden. “I just don’t want to… I want to bring it, that’s all.”

Nancy looked at Bill, who shrugged. He’d lived in barracks for longer than he cared to remember. If you weren’t careful, sometimes other guys stole your shit, honour code be damned. He’d almost knocked a guy’s teeth out over a batch of Nancy’s care package cookies once. He had to imagine it was the same thing in foster care… except maybe without the care packages. 

“Okay then,” said Nancy. “Brian, you’re gonna stay here with your dad. Holden and I will be back later. Have fun, you two.” She knelt and gave Brian a kiss, and he ignored her. 

Bill played with Brian for a little bit, and then heaved a great sigh, and started cleaning out his office. 

He took the cabinet to the garage, and did a sweep of the desk to make sure no other sensitive material was in there. He put his secondary gun, which usually lived in his desk, in his closet for now, along with the sidearm he wore at work. The secondary gun was unloaded, but the cartridge was right next to it. There really wasn’t any ideal place for a gun except on his hip, which wasn’t an option.

Bill moved the desk first, pushing it against the wall. He considered moving his record player out into the living room, but anticipated what Nancy would say— neither of them had listened to that record player in ages, let alone bought a new record. They mostly used the radio and the TV these days. And did he want all his old records out where Brian could mess them up? Holden at least would be able to appreciate them, maybe. 

So he left the record player, and moved the records around on the shelves so there was some space for Holden to put his books. He supposed he could take some of those old things up to the attic if the kid needed more space. Maybe it was time to sell some of them.

Moving the dresser was easy enough— there didn’t seem to be very much in it. The bed was a bit harder. He moved all the bedding, and then the mattress. The frame was lightweight, but awkward. Without another person to help, he had to put it on its side and slide it out the door and across the hall.

Brian stood in the hallway, staring curiously as Bill pushed the bed frame into his old office. 

“How’s it going, Bri?” panted Bill. He took the opportunity to get on his knees and rest. “You wanna help?”

Brian didn’t say anything. His eyes moved between Bill and the bed frame.

“We haven’t told you yet, because we wanted it to be a surprise for Holden,” said Bill. “But you’re each getting your own room. So I’m moving his stuff into this room,” Bill pointed at his old office. “And then you’re getting that room all to yourself.”

Brian didn’t respond.

“Here.” Bill held out his hand. After a moment, Brian timidly took it. Bill led him back to his bedroom, where a patch of carpet stood empty. “See? This is all yours now.” 

Brian looked around the empty room carefully, like he was mapping the space in his mind. Bill tried not to bite his lip. As far as he knew, Brian had never had his own room. Would this feel like an abandonment? 

“Holden’s going to be just across the hall,” said Bill. “Right over there.” 

Brian quickly toddled out of the room. Bill followed him to the living room, where the boy scooped up an armful of blocks. He ran past Bill without a glance. He dumped his blocks on the floor of his bedroom, and went back for another load.

“Well,” said Bill, sighing in relief. “I guess you like it.” He helped his son transfer the rest of his blocks and toys into his own room. 

He got the bed into Holden’s room, placed the mattress, and then re-made it with the bedding. Then he vacuumed, smiling wryly when Brian appeared in the doorway of his room, covering his ears. 

“Too loud? You can close the door if you want.” 

Brian looked at the doorknob. Bill came forward and helped him close the door. 

“Not all the way,” said Bill. “You call for Daddy if you need anything.” 

Bill finished vacuuming, and then had a beer on the couch. It had been a few hours, and the snow had started up again. He considered seeing if Brian wanted to go out and play, but it was awfully windy, and soon he was just worried about Nancy on the road. 

He had just finished putting Brian down for his nap when he heard the garage door opening. Nancy came in soon enough, entering through the utility room from the garage. 

“Hey,” she called out. “We got groceries. I should have called, I didn’t realize it had started snowing again.” 

Bill went to the utility room and put on his mud boots. “How’d it go?”

Nancy shook snow off her coat. “Don’t say anything to him,” she said quietly. “He’s really not happy.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said tersely. She picked up her purse, and two paper bags of groceries. “He— he doesn’t like it when people touch his mouth.”

Bill frowned. “Well he’s gonna have to deal with it,” he grumbled.

“Bill, I’m serious. Don’t say anything. They had to call me in. He was…” she looked at him, and closed her mouth. 

“What, did he cry?” 

Nancy narrowed her eyes at him. “Leave it alone, Bill.” 

Bill put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. He went into the garage. Holden carried several groceries bags from the trunk of the car, with a hell of a scowl on his face.

“How was it, kid?” Bill asked as they passed each other. Holden ignored him.

Bill got the rest of the groceries out and closed the trunk. In the kitchen, Holden helped put groceries away. His coat and knapsack sat on one of the bar stools.

Bill put his grocery bags on the counter. “Guess it’s gonna be soup tonight, huh?” 

Nancy elbowed him. 

Holden kept mum as they put away all the groceries. He reached for his coat and knapsack.

“Holden, wait,” said Nancy. 

“You said I could,” Holden whined, very quietly, his voice slurring, barely opening his mouth.

“What’s going on?” asked Bill. 

“Holden wanted to go to the library, but it’s too snowy,” said Nancy. “So I said we’d leave him alone for the rest of the day, but I want to show him something first.” 

Nancy put a sheet of paper on the fridge under a magnet— _Dr. Park’s No-No Foods!_ It was a cheery, colourful list of absolutely everything that was fun to eat, and included little drawings. Then she reached out and took Holden by the wrist gently.

“You did so well today,” she said. 

Holden’s shoulders went up, and he stared at the floor. 

“Come on,” said Nancy. She glanced over at Bill, who nodded. 

Nancy led Holden to the hallway, and opened the door of Bill’s old office.

Holden didn’t seem to react at first. He stared at the newly laid out room for a moment, and then stiffened slightly.

“Happy birthday, Holden,” said Nancy. 

Holden stepped into the room and turned slowly. “I… sorry?” 

“It’s your room now,” said Nancy.

Holden’s lips moved silently, without opening enough to show any teeth. _My room?_ he seemed to say. 

Bill scowled. _Is that it?_ he thought.

Holden’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.” 

Something in Bill softened. Holden’s face looked the same it always did. Bill realized that that sullen, blank expression was what Holden looked like when he was confused.

“This is your bedroom now,” said Nancy. “And Brian has his own room.” She looked Bill. “Did he mind?” she whispered.

“He’s thrilled,” Bill whispered back. Nancy grinned.

Holden wrung his hands and stared at the floor. “I haven’t had my own room since…”

Bill shifted uncomfortably.

“Well it was overdue,” said Nancy. “And there’s a gift for you. Over there.” She pointed at the package Bill had left on the desk, wrapped in leftover Christmas wrapping paper.

Holden reached out for the gift, and looked over at them again, eyes huge.

“It’s from us, Holden. For your birthday.” Nancy shook her head and put a hand in her hair. She gave Bill a look like _have you ever met a kid who didn’t seem to understand what birthdays are?_

Holden gently unwrapped the gift, not even crinkling the paper. He pulled out the letter jacket and gawked at it. He must have noticed the name embroidered on the chest, for he looked up at Bill with a start.

“Is this… what I think it is?” he asked.

Bill shrugged.

“Go ahead honey, put it on,” said Nancy.

Holden shook his head. “It’s too much,” he said.

“Oh, shush. It was just gathering dust in the attic. Come on.” She took the letter jacket and draped it over Holden’s shoulders. 

He tugged at it, arms crossed, like a girl wearing her guy’s coat at the end of the date. “It’s really— it’s too much. With the room and everything.”

“A boy needs his own room,” said Nancy, smoothing the coat down Holden’s shoulders. “And you need a better jacket than the one you have. You might have to wait ’til you grow an inch, but…” she stepped back, and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Bill, he looks so handsome!” 

Bill cleared his throat. “Yeah.” 

Holden’s cheeks started to turn pink. He raised his head and looked between Bill and Nancy. It was the first time he’d made eye contact with Bill all day. “Thank you,” he said. 

And then he smiled. A real smile, with his teeth showing, revealing a stark, thick line of grey metal all the way across. 

Bill felt himself smiling back. It was weird. It made him feel good. 

And Nancy was right. Holden looked _real cute_ in Bill’s old letter jacket. 

—

That night, Bill woke with a start. 

Nancy stirred next to him. “Is that Brian?” she slurred. 

“You stay here,” said Bill. Nancy had dealt with Holden’s nonsense all day, and she had Brian and his tantrums all week. It was only fair. 

Bill went into the hallway. The nightlight from Brian’s room illuminated the hall. Brian was standing in front of Holden’s door, sobbing, clutching his stuffed rabbit. 

“Ho-den,” cried Brian.

“Hey,” Bill said gently. He knelt down by Brian. “What’s wrong, buddy? Did you have a bad dream?”

Brian gulped for breath, rubbing at his eyes. Bill reached for him, and Brian shied away.

“Come on, Bri-bear,” whispered Bill. “You gotta come to me or Mommy when you have a bad dream, okay? Leave Holden alone.” 

Brian only sobbed harder.

The door opened gently.

“Ho-den!” Brian flung himself at Holden, who crouched down, his hair all mussed and curly. 

“Sorry, Bill,” Holden muttered, cradling Brian in his arms. “Do you want me to…?” 

Bill shook his head. “He’s gotta get back to sleep,” he said. 

Holden nodded. “Come on, Brian,” he said, carrying the boy into his own room.

“This is the last time,” Bill reassured him. “I’ll talk to Nancy. We’ll figure something out.” 

“Okay, Bill,” said Holden. “I don’t mind. Really.”

Bill only sighed. 

Holden laid Brian down in his own little bed. “I’ll stay with him. Goodnight, Bill.” 

Bill bit his lip. He went back to bed and put his arms around his sleeping wife, and wondered when his own son was going to stop being afraid of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rococoa has drawn some INTENSELY cute [fanart of Holden wearing Bill's letter jacket it's so good!!](https://yourbeauties.tumblr.com/post/189518575188/holden-wearing-bills-letter-jacket-from-chapter)


	6. Late January, 1977

With Jim Barney in Quantico for a few weeks on a trial basis, and Wendy and Gregg planning their own interviews, Bill started sneaking out a little early on Fridays. Nancy called him at work one afternoon in late January, and said she was taking Brian to the doctor. “He has a fever," she said, that familiar note of strain in her voice. 

Bill knew that, given her previous career as a nurse, Nancy wouldn't overreact for something minor, and wouldn't take Brian to a germ-infested doctor's office unless she felt it was absolutely necessary. The only person she trusted with Brian was her former boss at the hospital’s pediatric ward, who ran a clinic there two days a week.

"What time were you coming home?” she asked. “I told Holden I would pick him up from the library before dinner, because it’s going to be too cold to walk. Could you get him on your way back? I might be a while with Brian. Dr. Cox’s clinic goes until 8:00, and there’s always lots of kids there.”

So Bill found himself pulling into Central Rappahannock Regional Library, a building he was fairly certain he had never actually set foot inside, shortly after the sun had set. The main floor was small enough that he could scan it with one glance, but he didn't see Holden. 

"Excuse me," he asked the librarian at the reference desk. "I'm here to pick up my kid. High schooler. About yay tall, brown hair?" 

She smiled indulgently. “We don’t really have a lot of teenagers that hang out here.”

“Well, Holden says he's here almost every day."

"Oh, Holden!" Her smile grew more genuine, and her eyes softened. "That's your boy? What a sweetheart. He's with the microfilm. Third floor."

Bill nodded his thanks. As far as he could tell, all the interesting books were down there on the main floor, out on displays, divided between kids and adults. The third floor was all huge computers and big old books stored behind glass. It felt weird that kids were even allowed up there.

He found Holden at a far corner, sitting in front of a machine with a large, tilted screen. A roll of film was threaded under a lens, like a microscope. He was reading an old newspaper, from the looks of it. As Bill got closer, he made out the headline on the screen: _ANOTHER WOMAN MURDERED IN FRANKLIN SQUARE. _

"Hey kid," Bill said when he was an appropriate distance away.

Holden almost leapt out of his skin. "Bill! Wh-- what are you doing here? What time is it?" He hastily scrolled the microfilm away from the article, to some department store advertisements. 

"It's half past five,” said Bill. "Nancy had to take Brian to the doctor, so she asked me to pick you up." 

“Half past five?” Holden's brow furrowed. "Oh. Sorry, sir."

Bill shrugged. "This is when Nancy was gonna come get you anyway, isn't it?" 

"You didn't leave work for me, did you?" Holden wound the microfilm, hands shaking, and stuffed it into a waiting box. 

"No, I was coming home anyway," Bill said. He discreetly caught a glimpse at the titles on the boxes of microfilm. _The Washington Post Dec 1975 - Aug 1976_ on the box Holden was hastily trying to close. The other box sitting on the desk was _The Virginian-Pilot Sept 1971 - April 1972_.

That worn old notebook Holden always had was on the desk, too. He shoved it into his knapsack and zipped the bag shut with a yank, as if Bill was standing there tapping his foot. He threw on his coat in a hurry, and clutched the microfilm boxes protectively. "I have to put these back," he said. "Sorry."

Bill shrugged again. "Okay. Lead the way. I've never been up here before." 

Holden grabbed a small card from the desk, with some numbers and letters scribbled on it. He tentatively led Bill down a row of large cabinets, glancing between his card and the cabinets until he found the right ones. He pulled out a large drawer stacked thick with microfilm, and slotted one of his boxes into the exact spot.

“Don’t the librarians prefer to shelf things themselves?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to make work for them,” said Holden. “They trust me.” He found the other drawer and shelved the second box. Then he tucked his thumbs under the straps of his knapsack, and looked somewhere near Bill’s feet. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

“Was that for school?” Bill asked as they got into the elevator. 

Holden’s face tilted even further towards the floor. “Yes,” he said, hesitantly. 

“You’d think they’d assign you something you could research there.” Bill got out a cigarette, but didn’t light it. 

“I like it better here than the school library,” mumbled Holden. “And they close at four, anyway. Goodnight, ma’am,” he tossed a quick wave at the reference desk as they made their way past. 

“Goodnight, Holden,” the librarian smiled. “Goodnight, Mr. Ford.” 

Holden’s shoulders went up at the implication, but Bill didn’t address it. He sparked up his cigarette when they got outside, icy wind biting at their faces. The car hadn’t gone too cold, thankfully. He glanced over while they were buckling in, and saw Holden pointedly facing away from his puff of smoke. 

Bill cracked open a window. “Nancy wants us to pick up some dinner,” he said. “What are you in the mood for? Kentucky Fried Chicken? Pizza? Can you eat pizza with those train tracks?”

Holden looked over at him, blank confusion on his face. “There’s leftovers,” he said.

“I’ll make a hash from leftovers tomorrow,” said Bill. “It’s Friday night. Let’s order a feast.” 

“I mean, I could have the leftovers,” said Holden. “Then you don’t have to get me anything.” 

Bill glanced over at Holden. He took a moment to choose his words carefully. “Don’t you think that would be a little weird? If the rest of us get fast food, and you were eating leftovers?”

Holden’s brow was furrowed. “I know how much food can cost,” he said tentatively. “I don’t want to take more than my share.” 

Bill frowned. “Holden, you know we get an allowance for you.”

“Yes, and I also know it’s a fixed amount. I know they don’t reimburse you for... fast food or movies or anything.”

Bill frowned harder. _Jesus Christ, Holden, let me buy you some fucking chicken,_ is what he wanted to say. _What kind of assholes penny pinched you that hard before we got you?_ is also what he wanted to say. _Do I really look like the kind of person who would get fast food for myself and make a kid eat leftovers?_ is what lurked deep below.

Instead, he took a moment to turn the car radio on, flip over to the rock station. Snuck another quick glance at Holden. Since Christmas, the deep lines under the kid’s eyes had softened somewhat, and there was a bit of brightness to them in the rare moments he smiled. But now that Bill thought about it, Holden hadn’t filled out as much as he should have on a month of Nancy’s good home cooking. 

Brian was such a fussy eater. Nancy spent half her day figuring out how to get enough food into him. Holden, on the other hand, never complained, and ate everything that was put in front of him at meals. 

But those meals were only dinners and weekends. That was a lot of time Bill never thought about before. He usually just took coffee to work and then ate breakfast at the commissary. He was sure there was cereal at the house, but Brian could be kind of a nightmare for Nancy in the mornings, and cereal with braces didn’t sound easy. 

“What do you usually do for lunch?” he asked. “Does Nancy make you something?”

“Sometimes I take leftovers,” said Holden. “If I can eat it cold.”

“No sandwiches?” Bill asked. 

“Bread’s hard with braces.” 

“Ah. So,” Bill inferred. “Nancy thinks you make your own lunches.”

“Yeah.” 

“But there’s not always leftovers?”

Holden looked out the window for a long while. “I don’t want to bother her.” 

Bill took a drag, trying not to spook Holden too much, since the kid’s shoulders were inching up. “Doesn’t the school give you lunch?”

“You have to sign up for it,” Holden mumbled. “It costs extra.”

Bill turned off the road leading home and headed towards the Kentucky Fried Chicken. “ Are you still interested in learning to drive?”

Holden twitched, looking confused by the sudden change of topic. “Uh... yeah. But there’s a class at school when you’re in grade ten.”

“Why wait,” said Bill. “I can teach you on the weekends.” 

Holden’s mouth popped open slightly. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his coat, and he was probably rubbing his fingers together anxiously. “I thought you didn’t want to,” he finally said. 

“I don’t recall exactly,” said Bill. “But I’m pretty sure I didn’t want you to drive across the state by yourself. You gotta learn sometime, and it’ll be convenient once you have your licence. Especially with Brian. If there’s an emergency or something.” He shrugged. 

(What had actually happened was that while getting ready for their first interview, Wendy and Gregg prepared a bunch of research about children who grew up in foster care, as their interview subject had been one. They had presented this information to Bill with such detached professionalism that Bill was almost insulted, until he realized that he’d never actually told Wendy he was fostering Holden. 

They had both picked up on his tight-jawed dread as they went on-- foster children were more likely to be abused, less likely to graduate high school, more likely to have criminal convictions, less likely to be steadily employed, etc-- and they both read it as disapproval of their interview plan, so that was a whole web to untangle. 

Anyway, one of the many insights gleaned from their research was that foster children were far less likely than other kids to get their driver’s license-- at any age. If they didn’t learn to drive as teenagers, they certainly didn’t have the support structure as young adults to do it on their own. 

“This has a direct impact on their lives as adults,” Wendy had said. “In addition to everything else they contend with, it’s even harder to hold a job, or complete their education.”

“It’s just one thing after another,” Gregg had said, shaking his head.)

Holden sat up very straight. "Yes, sir, I would like to learn to drive," he said. "But I don't want to bother you if you're busy."

“It’s no bother,” said Bill. "Just on the weekends sometimes. Tomorrow. How does that sound? If it's not too icy, we'll go to the mall and use the parking lot." 

Holden tensed. "Wouldn't it be better to wait until the spring?"

"It's best to learn in the conditions you're actually going to be driving in," said Bill. "Then you get the right habits right away, and when summer comes it's smooth sailing. No nasty surprises on your first winter. Make sense?"

Holden nodded hesitantly. "Yes, sir." 

"Okay, great." Bill pulled into the restaurant parking lot. "Kentucky Fried Chicken is really finger lickin’… good chicken," he sing-songed. "Let's get some food."

Inside the restaurant, Holden hunched over on himself, thumbs still tucked into the straps of his knapsack. 

"What do you like, kid?" asked Bill. 

"Uh..." Holden stared up at the menu board with huge eyes. 

"Chicken's okay, right? We'll go home and you can shred it if you have to. Whipped potatoes?"

"Okay, Bill," Holden mumbled. “Should we... get a bucket?"

Bill grinned at him. "Let's get a barrel," he said. 

Holden actually gasped. "That's a lot."

"It's Friday," shrugged Bill. "I'm starving. And you can't have too much fried chicken." 

"I'm not sure that's true," Holden mumbled. 

"Anything else?" 

"A _barrel_ of chicken is plenty, Bill."

"And whipped potatoes," Bill added. "And I'm getting potatoes. Nancy and Brian will want some. I'm getting some rolls. And corn. And gravy. You want a drink?"

Holden looked tentative. "Can I get Pepsi?"

"Sure," said Bill. "Let's get one of those big bottles. Dessert?"

Holden's eyes were huge, like he wasn't sure if he should push his luck. "Pie?"

"Pie it is," said Bill. He stepped up to place his order. He pretended not to notice Holden tensing even more, stifling a smile, eyes bright. 

\--

They got their barrel of chicken and all the fixins home, and started setting it out on the dining room table, when the phone rang. It was Jim Barney, still at the office, looking for Bill. 

“Sorry to bother you at home,” he said. “We got a call from a detective up in Manassas. Said they were referred to you by an Art Spencer in Fredericksburg.” 

“Oh, sure,” said Bill. “You could get Melissa or Calvin to take a message, you know.” Melissa and Calvin were the two most junior of the BSU’s support staff. 

“I know. Calvin took the call, but I was curious about it. I hope you don’t mind me diving in like that. “

“Not at all. You’re part of the team now.” Bill leaned against the wall, a smile tugging at his lips. He really liked Jim Barney. The other man was calm and quiet and rational, and the most dedicated agent Bill had ever met. 

“A high school boy was reported missing just after the new year, and the Manassas PD never had any leads,” Jim told him. “They found him two weeks ago, stabbed. This Detective Spencer said that might be of interest to you.” 

“It is,” said Bill. “Did they fax something over?”

“Yeah, I’m looking at it now. Eleventh grader, high school athlete. Big and strong. Must have caught him unaware.”

“He didn’t fight back?” Bill saw something in the corner of his eye— Holden inching forward inquisitively, having finished setting the table. Bill took a few steps further into the kitchen, tuned away, and tried to keep his voice down. 

“He was tied up,” said Jim. “Judging from the wounds on his wrists.” 

“Huh.” 

“Does that track with the case you and Spencer were looking at?” asked Jim. “I didn’t see anything on a board that might be related. Didn’t want to go into your office, though.” 

“No, I brought the files home with me. I’ll bring them back on Monday, we’ll discuss it then.”

“Sure,” said Jim. “Sorry again to bother you at home. I thought you probably wouldn’t want this to wait all weekend.”

“You thought right. Actually, we should consider going out there on Monday afternoon, talking with the detective on duty.”

“I may have already called them,” said Jim. “I may have already found out the best place for lunch. Still looking for some decent barbecue up here.” 

Bill couldn’t help another smile. “Okay, then. Lunch in Manassas, sounds great. See you Monday, Jim.”

“Have a good weekend, Bill.” 

Bill hung up and turned around. 

Holden didn’t even try to hide the fact that he’d been eavesdropping. He stood square in the doorway of the dining room, hands awkwardly fidgeting by his sides. “What was that about?” he asked. 

“Never you mind,” said Bill. “Let’s eat.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Nancy and Brian?” 

“They might not be back until eight,” said Bill. “Go on, sit. Now, driving. Do you know how a manual transmission works?”

\--

That night, Brian was crying for Holden after Nancy gave him his medicine and put him to bed. Later, Bill peeked into Brian's room, and saw him curled up on Holden's lap, fast asleep. The teenager sat up on the bed, leaning against the wall, reading a book by Brian's nightlight. _Jack the Ripper: The Complete Casebook._ Real light, bedtime material. 

"Hey," Bill whispered. "Don't stay up too late with him. Don't want you to get sick, too." 

"I'll probably catch it anyway," said Holden. "I'm fine, Bill."

"Okay. Night."

"Goodnight, Bill."

He sat up in bed with some racing forms while Nancy put on all her creams and lotions. He didn't really bet much these days. He just liked to look. He shoved the racing forms behind the night stand when Nancy came in. 

He told her what Holden had said about his lunch. 

Nancy's face fell. "Oh, Jesus," she said. "He never complained about it. It didn't even occur to me." She sat on the bed with a heavy sigh. 

"It's okay," said Bill. "The school has a lunch program. We'll get the agency to pay for it."

"It's not that," Nancy shook her head. "Breakfast, too? Sometimes I don't even see him in the mornings. He just shovels the driveway and takes care of himself and gets on the bus. And Brian is so fussy... I bought cereal, but I didn't even think that he might not be able to eat it right now."

"He's old enough to make his own breakfast," said Bill. "Oatmeal or something."

"Yes, but I never told him he's allowed to use the stove. God, no wonder he's always so cranky in the evenings. And all those headaches. I didn't even question it." Nancy sighed again. She put her delicate little hands in her lap and wrung them together. "This is harder than I thought it would be." 

Bill furrowed his brow. He scooted closer and put a hand on her knee. 

"I don't think I'm very good at this," she said, softly. 

"What are you talking about?" Bill felt a twinge of something painful and sad between his brow. He hated that feeling, and tried not to acknowledge it whenever he felt it. 

Nancy just shook her head again, curls trembling. "Brian is... he's so hard to understand. He barely says a word. He never smiles. It's like he..." she closed her eyes. 

"It's only been a month," said Bill. "It's a difficult adjustment." 

Nancy didn't say anything. She stared hard at the floor. He scooted even closer and tightened his arm around her, but she didn't respond to it. 

"You just have to give it time," he said. 

“Fine,” Nancy brushed him off. She got under the covers, turned away from him. “I know how much you hate complaining,” she muttered. 

“I didn’t say you were complaining,” Bill said. 

“Goodnight, Bill.” She turned the lamp off. 

Bill sat awake for a bit, wondering what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KCF used to have two sizes, buckets and barrels, and barrels were meant to feed 10 people. Some countries still have barrels. The idea of a hungry Bill going to town on a huge barrel of chicken made me smile, so here we are.


	7. Samuel Raza, Manassas VA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Jim Barney investigate a murder in Manassas, VA.

Nancy deemed it too icy to go out driving on Saturday, but Bill still insisted that Holden join him in the garage and start learning about the car— if nothing else than to get out of Nancy's hair, so she could look after a sick, fussy Brian. 

Holden was attentive, and a very fast learner. He repeated back everything Bill told him about the car, and asked all the right questions. He was eager to get under the hood and get his hands dirty, and by the end of that first day, he could change a tire without direction.

Bill did notice the kid sneaking a glance at his locked cabinet in the corner of the garage every now and then, though. 

They didn't go to church that Sunday, because of Brian's fever, and Holden's prediction came true. He was sick by Sunday night. 

Nancy sent Bill to bring Holden some soup in his room, while she tried to get Brian to eat. The little boy was a feeling a bit better after a weekend of puking and chills, but feeding him was even more of a nightmare than usual. 

Bill carefully carried the soup to Holden's room. 

The kid sat at his desk, resting his head on that worn out old notebook. A plastic Ziploc bag lay open in front of him, with some papers inside, and two little Matchbox cars were out on the desk. Holden fiddled with one of the cars, a little white convertible, pushing it back and forth under his finger. The other car was still in its box. 

“Soup's on,” Bill said gently as he nudged the door open.

As ever, Holden hastily put the little white convertible back in its box, and slipped both toy cars into the plastic bag, sealing it quickly. 

“Matchbox cars?” Bill carefully set the soup on Holden’s desk, as the kid put the plastic bag and the notebook in his knapsack. 

“Yeah,” Holden mumbled, eliciting a cough. 

Bill raised a brow. “Why do you keep them in that bag? Why not on your shelf?”

Holden stared down at the soup. “I have Natalie’s number in there, and my birth certificate and vaccine record. I always keep them with me.” He sounded miserable, tired and strained. 

Bill rubbed the boy’s shoulder, which was tense, and warm with fever. He frowned. “I'd have thought Miss Wong would hang on to your birth certificate for you.”

Holden shook his head. “It’s better that I have it.”

“We have a locked safe in our bedroom,” said Bill. “If you’d feel better keeping it there.” 

Holden’s shoulders went up. Bill pulled his hand away.

“I’d rather keep it with me, if it’s all the same,” said Holden. “Just in case.”

“Well, try to eat, okay?” said Bill. “I’ll bring you some more water.”

\-- 

Bill left early on Monday, bringing along the files for Craig Ward and Jeremy Adams, carefully looking over his shoulder in the garage for any snooping kids when he retrieved them. 

The unit had their morning meeting, then Gregg and Wendy went off for their interview. Bill and Jim Barney decided to drive out to Manassas early. It was a beautiful drive, all historic plains covered in drifts of white snow, and Jim was good company.

"Samuel Raza," Jim explained, "was seventeen years old, in eleventh grade, and on the varisty football team. Popular, good grades, the works." He looked up from the file in his lap as Bill drove. "How much does victimology play into this kind of work? What do you feel you need to know about them?" 

"It depends," said Bill. "We haven't applied our research to that many cases yet, to be honest with you. So far, in the cases I've consulted on since we started the study, the victimology seemed pretty superficial. They were chosen for their looks, age, what have you. But…" he took a long drag of his cigarette, squinting through his sunglasses at the bright light bouncing off snow. "We've been lucky, so far, that the suspect pool in the cases we solved were pretty small to begin with. You take a look in our cabinet of cold cases and you'll see a lot of dead ends."

Jim made a little noise of sympathetic agreement. "Isn't that always the way."

"There's a bit of a pattern here," Bill said. "Though I'm hesitant to commit to it yet. And this is our first high schooler. The other two were college students."

"He was a big kid," Jim flipped through the file, and found a school photo. "Could be mistaken for 21, easily." 

"Must've come in handy for parties," said Bill. "And he was popular? Varsity athlete, you said?"

"Uh huh."

"Jeremy Adams was on a varsity team at Georgetown," said Bill. "Not sure about Craig Ward, though."

"Craig Ward looked the part," Jim encouraged. "Strong, handsome, clean cut. You think that's the commonality?" 

"Who knows." Bill glanced at the photo. "Hold on. Raza. What kind of surname is that?"

"In his case, it's Pakistani," said Jim. "His father immigrated in the '50s, to go to university. Met a girl, and ended up staying." 

"Huh," said Bill, glancing again at the photo-- Samuel was a handsome kid, with thick hair, a square jaw, and a lazy grin. "The other kids were white. We haven't seen any of our sex-impulse killers cross racial lines before."

"You think this was sexual?" 

"There doesn't have to be a sexual act for it to be sexual for the killer," said Bill. "And the stabbing… besides rage, it's… well. It's penetrative."

"Ugh," said Jim.

"Yeah. You can thank Wendy for pointing that one out." 

"Samuel's mother's white. Maybe at a distance… I wouldn't clock him as white personally, but someone else might." Jim looked out at the snowy plains thoughtfully. "They were all homecoming king material. Sexual rage against the masculine ideal? You don't see that very often."

"I think it's just not expressed very often," said Bill. "It has to be homosexual. I don't think a woman would be able to take these guys down, and if women even _do_ kill multiple people, something tells me they wouldn't do it like this. But I'm not convinced about the race thing. Are there a lot of Pakistani folk in this neck of the woods?"

"Not really," admitted Jim. "The parents run a little kebab place out by Sudley. It's the only one in the area, at least outside of DC." 

"I don't think I've ever had kebab," said Bill.

"It's seasoned meat on a skewer, and you grill it."

Bill's stomach rumbled in interest. "Sounds like the perfect food. They must be cleaning up."

Jim grinned. "They've closed the place for now. Might pack it in. The local cops initially investigated this as a hate crime, since the restaurant's had a few… unfortunate incidents in the past."

Bill made an open-palmed gesture. "Is hate crime still on the table? I don't want to see patterns with the other boys if there aren't any."

"The mooks they caught for vandalism against the restaurant didn't pan out for this. Samuel went missing on New Year's Eve, and probably died in the first few days of January. Local rednecks all had good alibis, and this would be a hell of an escalation. Anyway…." Jim fell into thoughtful silence for a little while. "I'm familiar with hate crimes. This seems different."

"Oh?" said Bill. "Too extreme?"

"No, I've seen hate crimes get plenty extreme," said Jim. "But usually, someone wants to take credit, even anonymously. This kid was hidden in the snow, face down, miles from the restaurant." He looked back down at Samuel Raza's smiling face, brimming with potential. "Whoever did this wanted to keep it a secret as long as he could." 

\--

The Manassas chief of police was a dull-eyed old man named George Carter, and he was not happy to see them. 

"This your doing, Key?" he nodded at the youngest, newest-looking officer in the room.

Officer Key blinked owlishly. "N-no, sir," he sputtered.

"Ah Christ," the old man rolled his eyes. "It was her, wasn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the agents. "Manassas is a small town, we don't usually get this kind of crap."

"That's right," Jim said gently. "You don't have your own homicide unit. Prince William County sent over a detective."

Jim was as kind and polite as Bill had ever heard him, but Chief Carter still gave him a dismissive up-and-down look. "Yeah, that's right. But while we might need their help, we don't need the _FBI_ getting involved. The family's been having trouble with some local rednecks, I keep telling her that's all this is." 

"Well, I'm sorry if you weren't informed of our visit," said Bill. "We certainly don't want to step on any toes. But we're interested in crimes like this for our own sake." 

"Crimes like this?" Carter scowled. "You tracking hate crimes?"

Jim tilted his head ever so slightly, obviously just as confused as Bill. The chief still thought this was a hate crime when the detective on duty didn't. 

"We're tracking particular violent crimes," said Bill. "This one's similar to a few others we've got on the books. We'd just like to talk to the detective on duty, and we'll be out of your hair."

Chief Carter stared at him a moment, sizing him up. He grumbled, and turned away without a goodbye.

"Think someone's having a bad day," Bill said quietly to Jim.

"You never met him before?" asked Jim. "On road school?"

"Never been invited here." 

A blonde woman stood near the side of the bullpen. She had been watching their interaction with a tense, stony face, arms crossed. Young Officer Key talked to her now, and she glanced over and made brief eye contact with Bill. She nodded at Key, and the two walked over to the agents.

"Special Agent Barney?" she asked, holding her hand out. "We spoke on the phone. Detective Gunhilde Slováček, Prince William County PD." 

Bill blinked. Jim had never mentioned the detective on duty was a woman. Bill had worked with female officers before, even female agents these days, but never a woman at this level of authority. Except for Wendy, maybe, but she was a consultant. A researcher. She didn't carry a sidearm. 

Jim elbowed him in the ribs.

"Special Agent Bill Tench," he said, trying not to shake her hand too hard. "Good to meet you, Detective Slova-check."

"Slováček," she corrected him, making an aural distinction he honestly couldn't hear. "You can call me Hilde. This is Sylvester Key, Manassas PD," she nodded at the young, uniformed officer. "We're, uh-- we're the entire team on the Raza case." 

Key nodded shyly in acknowledgement. He was black, and gawky, and somehow looked even younger than Samuel Raza. He had a jumpy, wide-eyed demeanour that reminded Bill of Holden. 

Gunhilde Slováček was in her thirties, slender and short, but standing with tense, raised shoulders, as if that would make her taller. She wore a very modest plaid sweater with a wide collared shirt underneath, and dark blue trousers, blonde hair up in a simple ponytail, minimal makeup. Trying not to look like one of Charlie's angels, Bill thought, or McMillan's wife.

"I caught Bill up a bit on the drive over," said Jim. "Let's go somewhere and talk." 

The four of them huddled around Key's desk in the bullpen. They hadn't even given Slováček her own desk space when she arrived, apparently.

They went over the basics of the case-- Samuel Raza had been reported missing by his parents on New Year's Day. The Chief, Key hesitantly explained, didn't open the case right away, partly because the police were operating on a skeleton crew on New Year's Day, and because he thought a teenaged football player was probably just nursing a hangover somewhere. 

"His parents are adamant that Sammy wasn't out drinking," said Slováček. 

"Are they religious? Traditional?" asked Jim.

"A little," she said. "But I think just more a bit doting, the way parents can be sometimes. He was an overachiever. Their only son. But I've spoken to some of his classmates, including his sometimes girlfriend, Angie West-- parents don't know about that relationship, either-- and they say he was at a party at Angie's house briefly, from 10:30 until a little after 11:00."

"Did he leave to go buy booze?" Bill hazarded a guess.

Slováček nodded. "That's what the kids say. Now of course nothing was open at that time of night, but…"

Manassas PD finally opened the case on January third, but had almost no leads to go on. A citizen walking their dog in a field discovered Samuel's body on the twelfth, about ten miles from the Raza family house, after a break in the weather melted the several inches of snow that had buried the poor kid. Face down, stabbed. That's when they finally contacted Prince William County to get a detective, and were sent Gunhilde Slováček. 

Time of death was difficult to pinpoint when the body had been left in the cold for so long, but estimated to be around the second or third of January, which gave Samuel potentially an entire day or two in the presence of his killer. 

"Was there any other evidence left on the body?" asked Bill.

"He was fully clothed, but he didn't have his keys or wallet," said Slováček. "There were bruises on his wrists that look like he was tied, but no rope. We've been back to the dump site a few times just in case more comes up as the snow melts. Maybe something got washed away." 

Bill nodded approvingly. 

"Has the tox screen come back?" Jim asked.

"Yes, this morning," said Key. "They didn't hit on anything."

"But the cold weather could have affected that, too," said Slováček. "He was under the snow for about ten days, at least." 

"Now, this might sound strange," said Bill. "But was there any evidence of, uh…" he glanced between the very-young Key, and the very-female Slováček.

"Sexual assault?" Key asked, unperturbed. "No, sir."

Slováček didn't even flinch. "Coroner was pretty certain about that. I think it's the one thing the weather wouldn't have been able to hide. They still would've been able to find the bruises."

\--

Slováček and Key took them to the dump site to look around. The parents were expecting to talk to Slováček again that afternoon, and she invited the agents along. "They don't know I've spoken to the classmates."

"That's good," said Bill. "Not everybody needs to know everything." He had a disposable camera, and took pictures of the field and the houses edging around it.

"This is a fairly new neighbourhood, I'm told," said Slováček. "Most of these houses were built in the last ten years. The development company bought this whole area, and started building. They're still selling them. You can see new ones going up over there." She pointed to the distance, where some house frames sat on top of a hill. "And this whole field here is going to be an elementary school. They just passed the zoning recently, supposed to break ground this spring. Of course, they can't until we figure this out." 

Bill nodded, and snapped some more pictures. Jim Barney slowly walked a few paces ahead, thoughtfully looking around.

"Were you familiar with Manassas before they sent you over?" Bill asked Slováček. 

She seemed surprised. "Not really. I mean, I came over as a kid to see the Civil War sites, but not much since then." 

"And you live-- where? Prince William town?" 

"I actually live in Springfield," she said. "My husband works in DC. But I grew up in Fredericksburg." 

"You don't say," Bill grinned. "Is that how you know Art Spencer?"

"Yeah. We, uh. We dated, back at James Monroe High."

"Well! There's no such thing as bad networking." 

"Guess not," she said, looking a little embarrassed. 

Bill looked at the houses on the edge of the field again for a little while. He tossed a glance at Officer Key, who carefully walked behind him. "How about you, Key? You grew up here?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said the young police officer.

"What do you think of these all these housing developments?" 

Key considered a while. "I guess it's nice that so many people want to live here," he said. "Lots more people moving here who work in DC and all." 

"You seem hesitant," said Bill. "It's okay. Tell me what you really think." 

Key frowned. "Well, I don't know, sir, but I've heard, that if you had yourself enough money, you could buy up these big new houses and then just sit on them. Wait until the community's a bit more built up, and then sell them for a huge profit. And I know this is a free country and all, sir, but it just seems like a way to push poorer folk out. I mean, I can't even buy a regular little house, let alone one of these fancy new ones."

"The rich get richer," said Bill. 

"I suppose so, sir. The dump site's just up ahead here." 

They came to an unassuming depression in the ground, a little natural dip. Snow half-covered the field, with bits of ice here and there. There was barely anything of note on that piece of land itself, except for the boundaries of tape marking it off, flitting in the wind. 

Bill took a picture of the spot, even though it seemed pretty pointless. 

"He definitely wasn't killed here," said Slováček. "There was hardly any blood." 

"Any fibres?" asked Jim. 

"No, and that's weird too, right? Without any blood, you'd think he'd have wrapped him in a carpet or something. But no, we didn't find anything. Just a few fibres from the ropes, we think, on his wrists."

Bill looked around. They weren't quite in the centre of the large field, but he couldn't say they were particularly close to any one edge. There was just as much road on the side of the field as there were stretches of housing.

He took a picture of a nearby cluster of homes. "I presume you've canvassed all the people living around here?" 

"Yep," said Slováček. "Nobody saw much. Only, three of those houses are empty anyway. Between buyers. They're the kind of houses that Sly here hates so much." 

As Key sighed wearily, Slováček stepped forward and peered off into the direction Bill was squinting. "Actually, looks like one of them might be open now." She gestured at Key. "We should make sure none of the open house people come traipsing through here."

"Evidence has already all been collected," said Key.

"Just in case, Sly, Jesus," she spat. 

Bill couldn't help a smirk. "Better safe than sorry," he echoed. "If you don't mind, I think Agent Barney and I will take another lap around the neighbourhood. Do you want to escort us?" You had to be careful when dealing with the local detectives, so as not to step on anybody's toes.

Slováček furrowed her brow for a moment. "Nah… see if you get something different with just the two of you. We'll stay here and make sure no lookie loos walk through. See if we can spot anything new." 

Jim and Bill went back to the road to walk around up to the ridge of houses. They spent about an hour knocking on doors, but when people were even at home, they weren't much use. Besides the dog walker who discovered the body-- who lived a few streets down, and came over to make use of the field-- nobody had seen anything.

Except one couple, who were very eager to talk to them.

"Please, please, sit down," a very nebbish, skinny man insisted. "It's about time they sent someone proper to talk to us."

"Someone proper?" Bill asked.

"Oh, yes, that _lady_ detective came around last week, but I didn't want to mention this to _her_," he sniffed. "It's rather indelicate. And that _boy_ she was with, I couldn't say it to him, either. He was still wet behind the ears. But my wife has seen something very upsetting." 

"Oh?" Bill glanced over at the man's even skinnier, mousy-haired wife. 

"No, no, Agent Tench," the man spoke, while the wife shook her head, eyes wide. "Don't make her say it. She told me about it, I'll tell you. There's a bus driver that comes by this street, the number 10 route. The high school kids ride it, they don't have their own yellow bus." 

"All right," said Bill, gesturing for the man to continue. 

"There is, I suppose you would call it a timing stop? A block down from here, on the corner. My wife walks there to go to the post office. More than once-- _more than once_, Agent Tench, she caught the bus driver sitting at that timing stop, with his door wide open..." his face went pinched. "Touching himself," he hissed. 

"Goodness," Jim Barney breathed. "Really?" 

The man nodded emphatically. "He was looking out of that field, where that poor boy was found. She saw him do this _twice!_ Once before Christmas, and once last week, _after_ they found the body. Disgusting!" 

Bill and Jim exchanged a glance.

"Did you report this to the police at the time?" asked Bill. "Or the transit authority?"

"Well, I tried," the man blinked rapidly. "But in both cases, a _woman_ answered the phone. I couldn't talk to them about it!" 

The agents thanked the couple and left the house. 

"Return to the scene of the crime," Bill mused. "Gratification." 

"Is it?" Jim wondered. "Is a return to the dump site really the same?"

"Sometimes," said Bill. "Depends what they get out of it. Though..." he glanced back at the field. "There haven't been any memorials or big public spectacles in this field, have there?"

"Samuel Raza was Muslim," said Jim. "They don't really go for that. At least, that’s my understanding.”

"So no public displays of mourning for the killer to get off on," said Bill. "Just an empty field. Hmm."

"This kid in Bethesda," said Jim, "Jeremy Adams. His parents had a big vigil at the police station, I heard."

"Yep," said Bill. "Let's double check with them to see if they flagged anyone in attendance there.” 

They trudged towards the open house, its colourful little flags fluttering in the breeze. 

“I'm getting hungry," said Bill. "And I don't think I can handle a sales pitch." He also felt tired, and his head started to ache. He rubbed his eyes. "How about you talk to this guy at the open house, and I'll go check out that timing stop."

Bill walked back down the street, noticing nothing that jumped out at him. He found the bus timing stop and took down the stop number. He looked over the field-- it was a perfect view. Slováček and Key trudged around the dump site, framed almost cinematically by houses. He took a picture. 

If the driver stopped there every day, he had plenty of time to stare at it and plan. And afterwards, stare at it and remember. Actually... 

Bill walked a little more around the area. Took some more pictures. That timing stop would probably be the best place to park if one wanted to drag a body out of a vehicle in a hurry. And nobody would blink at a bus stopped there for a while, even in the early hours. A bus driver would have access to vehicles that didn't belong to him. 

He caught up with Detective Slováček, and they got back in Officer Key's squad car to meet Jim at the open house. Afterwards, Slováček made good on her previous promise to Jim, and took them to lunch at a barbecue joint. 

Bill relayed the story of the masturbating bus driver, and the couple hesitant to tell them about it.

"Oh Jesus." Slováček rolled her eyes. "Well, lesson learned. I guess you really do have to send an old white man if you want to get any straight answers out of some people. No offense."

Bill shook his head. "None taken. Glad I could help."

"A new lead," Slováček said, while quickly writing in her notepad, "is more than a help. See, Sly? Calling the FBI wasn't, in fact, a stupid waste of time." 

Key's mouth was full, but he smiled shyly, and wiped sauce off his face. 

"Ugh," Jim said, abandoning his ribs. 

"No good?" Bill asked. 

"No good," Jim replied. "But thank you for trying, Hilde." 

She shrugged. "I do my best." 

"I hope that doesn't dissuade you from staying in Virginia full time," Bill said to Jim. 

Jim smiled a slow, lazy smile. "It's all right. I'll just put on my big boy pants. Anyway, my wife loves oysters, and I hear you have a lot of those." 

After some round table talk about Virginia oysters, Jim explained that he'd spoken to the realtor at the open house, a man named Scott Morris. "He was pretty aggressive," Jim said. "I would have thought, you know, this far north, some people wouldn't necessarily want the likes of me buying a house. But man, he really wanted that sale." 

"Sharks," Bill said. "I don't think I could do that line of work."

"No way," said Jim. "Though I suppose I am sometimes guilty of getting on someone's good side just to get what I want. Anyways, he didn't see anything. He was doing what Officer Key here dislikes so much. He bought this house when they started developing that lot, years ago."

Key made an unhappy little noise, and stared down at his food. 

"Now that the elementary school has been approved, the price has jumped up," Jim went on. "And in addition, he's fixed the house up even more, and gotten rid of the asbestos. Does all the work himself. He was mostly finished before the holidays, and then he took a break from it. Started selling it only a week ago, after the body was found. So it was empty that entire time. He actually lives down your way, Bill, in Brooksfield, near Fredericksburg."

"Really?" Bill frowned. "And he's selling houses an hour away up here?"

"He sells houses all over," said Jim. "God, listen to me. He's got me doing his spiel for him."

"Did he say anything interesting?" asked Slováček.

"Not really." Jim tried to eat some of his corn, and winced. "What is this seasoning?"

"Probaby just salt," said Key. 

"He _was_ very interested in Samuel Raza," Jim went on. "Hadn't heard about it until the police went public. Seemed kind of excited to be selling a house so close to the dump site. But..." Jim shrugged. "Maybe he was just mirroring me. Sales tactic, you know?"

Bill nodded. _Sales tactics_ weren't that different than what they did with suspects, after all.

\--

Bill wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting with the Raza family. He could count the number of Muslim people he'd met on one hand, and the same went for Pakistani people. Everything he knew about Muslims was gleaned from the brief time he worked for the counterintelligence unit, when he sifted through documentation about the Nation of Islam. He hated cointel, and was quickly reassigned to organized crime. Any spy skills he had were better applied there. 

The outside of the Raza house looked like all the others, and the inside was about as unfamiliar and slightly disorienting as the inside of any stranger's house. It was as well kept as one could reasonably expect a working family's home to be. The parents ran the restaurant together, and had a small child, as evidenced by the toys and general messiness. 

Bill smelled faint traces of _something delicious_ that he'd never had before as they stepped inside. Photos of the family, including Samuel and two younger girls, graced every wall. 

Slováček introduced the agents to the family, while Officer Key waited in the car outside. 

"Hello," said the father, reaching out to shake their hands. "Dawud."

"Da-- Da-wood?" Bill tried.

"You can just call me David," said the man. He was a similar age to Bill, and his natural accent was all but gone. He looked exhausted, and tense, and furious-- pretty much exactly how Bill would expect a man in his situation to look.

"Lily," his wife introduced herself. She had dull brown hair, and was as exhausted and worn out as her husband. They were both dressed rather sloppily. "Please, sit. Sorry for the mess. My mom took Sara, our youngest, but we haven't really had time to, uh…"

"No problem," said Bill. 

"I put on a kettle," Lily went on. "Would you-- oh, Dawud, get that?" The kettle started screeching, and the husband, after a moment of blinking, like he was catching up to what she had said, went off to the kitchen. 

The agents squeezed onto a couch, while Slováček took an armchair. Lily sat on a couch across from them, wringing her hands. A teenaged girl sat next to her, arms crossed, face sullen.

"This is Mona," said Lily. "Should she stay? Would it be better if…?"

"If you're comfortable with her staying, we have questions for all of you," said Jim. "How old are you, Mona?"

"Fifteen," she said, staring at him skeptically from behind a curtain of Farrah Fawcett-feathered black hair. She wore bellbottom jeans and a tight sweater, and heavy eye makeup. She looked every inch as popular and all-American as her brother. Neither Mona or her mother wore scarves on their heads or anything. But, Bill thought, how traditional could this family be if Dawud stayed in America and married a white girl?

The man in question returned with a set of tea cups on a very pretty plate. The tea was fragrant with spices. He put the tea on the coffee table, and then sat with a weary sigh. Lily stroked his back, while he stared at the tea.

"Mr. Raza," Slováček began. "We wanted to talk to you again about Samuel's last known whereabouts." 

"I told you," said Dawud, frowning at her. "We were all together, here, all night. We closed the restaurant early, and the kids were in bed by ten."

Mona tensed her arms around herself, and looked like she was trying not to roll her eyes. 

"And you noticed him missing the next day," said Slováček. "I know, sir. It's just that since then, I've interviewed some of his classmates, and they said he briefly arrived at a party a few streets away at around 10:30. I'm just trying to establish the timeline of where he went after that."

"No. They're wrong," Dawud insisted. "Sammy wouldn't sneak out to go to a party. He wasn't like that. He was a good boy. He was on the honour roll, and the football team, and he always helped at the restaurant. He didn't party or drink or _anything_." __

Mona heaved an exasperated sigh. 

Bill opened his mouth, but Jim shot him a very quick glance. After a nod from Bill, Jim went on. "Mona, is there something you'd like to say?" 

Mona glanced over at her mother. 

Lily patted her knee. "It's okay, sweetie. Just tell the truth." 

Bill kept watching Dawud, who stared grimly down at the floor. 

"Of course Sammy went to that party. It was at Angie West's house, right?" Mona asked Slováček. 

The detective nodded. "Yeah, that's right. Were you there, too, Mona? 

Dawud sat up straight, staring at his daughter with a hard frown. 

"No," Mona said uncomfortably, hugging her arms tight around herself. "I was… at a different party. But we snuck out of the house together." 

"Oh, Mona," Lily said gently, while Dawud's face turned red. 

"Mona, how could you!" 

"I already tried to tell you this, Dad!" the girl cried. "You just kept saying you didn't want to hear it!" 

"I _don't_ want to hear it," Dawud sniffled, wiping his eyes. "I worked so hard for you, to give you everything. And you _both_ run around like that? What are people going to think?" 

Mona sniffled, her little face scrunched in anguish. "No one's going to think you're a bad father," she said, her voice shaking. 

"Yes, they will," Dawud said miserably. "He was my only son. I failed him. I must've failed him, for him to do something like that." 

Bill looked down at his hands. He was suddenly not in the mood for fragrantly spiced tea. 

"There's one thing we're a little confused about," Slováček said gently. "Angie told me that Sammy left to go buy alcohol--" 

Dawud covered his face with an anguished sigh. Lily patted his back, occasionally wiping her own tears away. 

"But it was already way too late for that," Slováček went on. "It was past eleven. He must've known that nowhere would be open." 

Mona bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably. 

Dawud, still covering his face, mumbled through his fingers. "Just tell us, Mona," he said. "Whatever it is, just tell us." 

"Angie West is, like, gonna be valedictorian and all," said Mona. "So she probably didn't want to tell you." She fell silent again, staring at the ground. 

"Oh?" Jim promoted, to no response. 

"Was it drugs?" Bill finally just asked. 

Mona nodded. "Sammy-- just sometimes-- liked to smoke grass." 

Both parents sighed devastating sighs. Lily pressed her face against Dawud's shoulder. 

Bill leaned forward. This was nothing he hadn't seen before. When you interviewed someone's parents, siblings, friends, and colleagues, you'd get stories about four different people. 

"I _swear_ I never touched it, Dad," Mona said. 

"It's okay, Mona," said Bill. "You're not going to get in trouble for any of this. Right?" He looked expectantly at the parents. 

"Right," Lily said, her voice strained. Dawud just sighed shakily. 

Mona sank into herself, shoulders going up. She reminded Bill, for the second time that day, of Holden. 

"He… he said he hadn't been able to find any before the party started, but he'd heard-- well, everyone knew about a guy who sold out of his car at the Circle-K. He was, like, everyone's last resort. The Circle-K guy, I mean." 

"Last resort?" asked Bill. "Why's that?" 

"Well, it's not very good grass," she said. "And he charges you extra, because he knows you have nowhere else to go. This is just what I've heard!" 

"I know," said Bill, nodding for her to go on. Nearby, Slováček scribbled furiously in her notepad. 

"Sammy said he'd heard that the Circle-K guy was going to be there all night. So if he… if he left the party to go get anything, that's probably where he went." 

Dawud muttered angrily under his breath. 

Lily tried to calm him. "Sweetheart, it's okay." 

"He was my son!" Dawud shouted. 

"Dad, it's just grass…" Mona's voice broke off midway through, like she was realizing the stupidity of her words. 

"You and Sammy and Sara are my entire world," Dawud spat, his eyes wet and gleaming. "Every day I wake up and try to make it a little better for _you_. And my son _sneaks out_ to go to a party, and to meet some drug dealer, and he gets killed?! How does this happen? My whole life, it's for nothing!" 

Lily bit her lip, sobbing, and tried to soothe her husband. "Sweetheart, please. The detectives are here to help us. They got the FBI! We just need to let them ask their questions." 

"I can't handle any more questions," Dawud sobbed. "All I can think of is how I could have let this happen, how I must have failed. And how can I protect the girls if they can't even be honest with me?" 

"Well…" Lily rubbed his back. "I… maybe, going forward, we should let them have a little bit more freedom." 

"Freedom! Maybe I should've listened to my mother and not married an American girl," Dawud snarled. He abruptly stood and marched from the room. 

"Dad!" Mona shouted after him. 

Lily dissolved into tears, hunched over herself. 

"I'm sorry, Mom," Mona cried just as hard. 

Lily opened enough to wrap Mona in her arms. "It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, sweetie." 

Bill snuck a glance at Slováček, who sat tensely, mouth open slightly, looking a little shellshocked. 

On the other side, Jim was calm-faced as ever. "Mona," he said gently. "What time did you come home on New Year's Day?" 

This seemed to prompt Slováček out of her stupor, and she flipped to a new page in her notepad. 

Mona sniffled. "Um… maybe one in the morning," she said. "Not late." 

"And how did you get home?" 

"I walked," she said. "My party wasn't far away. My friend Alicia and I walked home together, she lives across the street." 

Jim nodded. "I'm glad to hear you were with a friend," he said. "That's smart." 

She sniffled, and stared down at her hands. "Thank you," she said softly. 

"When you got home," Bill tried to match Jim's soft tone. "Did you check on Sammy?" 

"Yeah, but… I wasn't expecting him there. I knew he'd be out later, especially if, um… if he found the Circle-K guy." 

"And the next day… what time would you have expected him to be home, knowing where he was, and what he was doing?" asked Bill. 

Mona looked up at him, eyes determined. "Before sunrise," she said. "Definitely. Dad sometimes gets up early for prayer, and Sammy would never have wanted Mom and Dad to know we snuck out. We promised each other that we'd always come home before sunrise." Her face crumpled. "Always." 

Lily hugged Mona tightly. 

"Mom, I'm sorry I didn't tell the police that the first day," Mona mumbled. "When we called. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay," Lily said, staring a thousand yards away. 

Slováček cleared her throat. "Uh, Mona… could you tell me about this Circle-K guy? Do you know which Circle-K he hangs out at, what he looks like, anything like that?" 

Mona shook her head. "I don't, I'm sorry. Angie West and the football guys probably know, but… I don't know if Angie would want to admit it." 

"Okay," Slováček said, obviously trying to make her voice sweet. She wrote in her notepad. 

Mona sniffled. "I think it was the Circle-K by Steeplechase, though." 

"Steeplechase?" asked Slováček. 

"It's a roller rink," said Lily. "Lots of kids hang out there. She means the Circle-K on, uh…" She sighed heavily. "Grant and Hastings." 

Bill straightened up. The poor woman had made the connection on her own. The field where Samuel was discovered was off Grant Street, only six or seven blocks away from Hastings. 

Slováček thanked Lily, and gave her condolences again. Bill shook her hand and thanked her for the tea, while Jim told Mona she had done a great job. 

"Do you have any leads?" Lily asked in the doorway. 

Slováček opened her mouth, but Bill cut her off. 

"Nothing yet, ma'am," he said. "But this talk has been very useful. We'll be in touch. Take care." 

Slováček frowned as they walked back down to Key's waiting squad car. "Why couldn't I tell her about the bus driver?" 

"Don't get their hopes up," said Bill. "Don't make promises." He and Jim got in the back, while Key looked over at them with interest. "What was that, anyway? We needed a better game plan in there." 

"I'm sorry," said Slováček. "I lost the plot for a moment. It just all hit me at once, I got shaken up." 

"It's all right," Jim said gently. "It's always going to be hard to be there while a family implodes." 

"They imploded?" Key asked. "I halfway feel like imploding myself. I think this might be a bit too much for a first case." 

"This is your first case?" asked Bill. "Ever?" 

"Yes, sir," Key said, eyes huge. "For both of us." 

"Excuse me?!" 

Slováček looked out the window. 

Officer Key, embarrassed, started the car. 

"Let me get this straight," said Bill. "Detective Slo-- Hilde. This is your first case?" 

"It's not my first case _ever_," she said. "It's my first case as detective." 

Bill felt an ugly look of horror creep onto his face. "You were only recently made detective, and they sent you here for this case all by yourself? And the only support they gave you was Officer Key?" 

Slováček nodded. 

"Jesus," Bill said. 

In the side mirror, he saw Slováček glaring angrily into the distance. 

Jim gave Bill a bit of a Look. "What Agent Tench means is that Prince William County doesn't seem to know how to train its detectives," he said. "You should have been given more support. But you did the right thing in reaching out to us, and you did well in there." 

Slováček turned in her seat to look back at him skeptically. 

Bill cleared his throat. "Yeah. I know it doesn't seem like it. But we have a clearer picture, and a solid lead. Two solid leads. That was a success, believe it or not." 

Slováček turned again to face forward. "That was a success?" she said, her tone sad and wondering. 

\-- 

Key and Slováček saw them off at the Manassas PD station. 

"I'll follow up on the bus driver. And this Circle-K guy," she said. "I'll let you know what comes of it." 

"Fingers crossed," said Jim. "And we'll reach out if we think of anything." 

Bill put their copies of the case materials in the trunk while Jim got in the driver's side, as they had switched off driving duty for the trip. 

"Agent Tench," Slováček said. "I'm sorry about letting that interview get to me. I'll be more professional next time." 

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little shaken myself," he said. Though he had, inwardly, thought she could have done a better job taking control of that interview, before he found out how green she was. He remembered how clueless and baffled he'd been half the time, without a mentor to guide him. 

"It's just…" she hesitated. "I have a kid, that's all. Going back to work was hard enough, and I've gotten so much resistance to even becoming a detective. I know they sent me here to fail. But I… I can't fail those parents." Her voice didn't shake, and her eyes were dry, but Bill could tell it was a struggle. 

"I get it," he said. "I do. I wish I could say it gets easier. It _kind_ of gets easier, but it's more…" He swallowed hard around a lump of dread in his chest, a dread that he usually managed to keep buried deep inside. "It's always hard with kids. You'll figure it out. You'll get there." 

She nodded her thanks, and tentatively shook his hand. “Thank you so much,” she said. “Really. I’m happy you’re involved.” 

In the car, Bill finally smoked the cigarette he'd been itching for since lunch. Jim broke the silence once they were on the highway. 

"These cases with kids are always a trip," he said. "Either the kids think they can pull a fast one on their parents, but their parents know everything. Or the parents think they know their kids inside out, when they don't know the very first thing." 

Bill started coughing. He tossed his cigarette, and closed the window. 

"How’s that going, by the way?" asked Jim. "With the adoption?" 

"Oh," said Bill. "It's going fine." 

\-- 

Nancy was absolutely frazzled when Bill came home that night. Brian felt better, but with Holden sick in bed all day and unable to help with chores, and a huge dump of snow, she was really worn down. 

Unfortunately for her, Bill woke up on Tuesday with the kids' fever-- and it hit him hard. 

"Gottago work," he mumbled into the pillow. He flailed his arm, as if that was going to help him get up. 

"You're obviously not going to work," Nancy sighed. "You'll die on the road. Just take it easy." 

Bill groaned, and tried to slide out of the bed. 

"Where do you think you're going?" 

"Gottacall em," he bleared. 

"It's seven in the morning," Nancy tutted, pushing him back into bed. "No one's there yet." 

"Wake me nine," he mumbled. 

"No," she said, pulling the blankets up around him. 

Bill woke a few hours later. "Wha?" he asked. 

Nancy came in, carrying Brian and some toys. She looked so, so tired. 

"Here, Brian," she said. "Daddy's awake. You can spend some time with him." 

She gently put Brian on the made up side of the bed. He had some of his toy trucks, and didn't pay Bill any attention, pushing the trucks around on a pillow. 

Bill reached an arm towards Brian, but not close enough to spook him. "Did you call work?" he asked, when Nancy came back in the room. 

"Yes. It's fine, Bill." She put a fresh glass of water on his nightstand. "Yesterday, I called Miss Wong and sorted everything out with Holden's school lunch. And I talked to him about breakfast." 

"Huh?" Bill cracked an eye open, but Nancy was already leaving the room. 

Bill sighed, screwing his eyes shut against his headache. He turned on his side and watched Brian, too tired to even try to engage. 

"I didn't think you could be taken down so easily," said a soft voice from the doorway. 

Holden stood there, wearing probably every sweater he owned-- which to be fair, wasn't very many sweaters. 

"Hey kid," said Bill. "You feeling any better yet?" 

"Yeah," said Holden. "I can probably go to school tomorrow." 

Bill squinted at him. "I don't think so," he said. "You should take the time you need to actually get better." 

"Speak for yourself," said Holden. "I heard you saying you wanted to go to work today." 

"Nnngh," said Bill, shifting closer to Brian. He lay his head down and closed his eyes, one arm curled loosely and protectively around his little son. 

"I don't think you're going back to work tomorrow, either," said Holden. He sounded amused. "I've never seen a foster parent get sick before. I guess they're exposed to all the viruses, and you're not used to it yet." 

"Yeah," Bill grunted. "I wasn't ready for you little germ factories to invade my home." 

A long beat of quiet. Bill cracked an eye open. He had half expected Holden to come into the bedroom and start playing with Brian, keep him a little company. But the kid had gone back to his room. Bill heard the door softly close. 


	8. Star Trek/ Wizards

Bill was still sick on Wednesday. He slept until Nancy made him get up.

"I have to run errands," she said, sounding as miserable as he felt. "I was going to take Brian over to Barbara's for a playdate today, but since you're home, we’re going for a girls' lunch. Okay?"

Bill nodded. He sat on the edge of the bed in his sweatpants and undershirt, feeling dirty and useless. 

"I left some soup in the fridge," she said, putting on her scarf and hat. "The boys are in the living room. I'll be back in time to make dinner." She left without saying goodbye. 

Holden sat on the couch, bundled up under some blankets, reading his Jack the Ripper book. He had an empty glass and a box of tissues on the coffee table. Brian played with his blocks on the floor nearby.

Bill boiled some water and made hot lemon and honey tea. He brought it over to Holden with a grunt.

"Oh," Holden sounded surprised. He sat up and took the tea. "Thank you, Bill." 

Bill shrugged. He went back to the kitchen to make himself some toast. Slathered it in butter, and got himself a beer. 

He plopped himself on the recliner, pulling it out to its full length. He looked around for the TV remote, but then decided he couldn't be bothered.

Holden sat primly on the couch, looking tiny under all those blankets and sweaters. He sipped at his tea, giving Bill an appraising look.

Bill narrowed his eyes at the kid as he bit into his buttery toast. "What?" 

"Should you drink when you're sick?"

"_You_ shouldn't. It's okay for me because I'm an adult." He cracked open his beer.

"Okay, Bill," Holden said, clearly not convinced.

Bill looked at Brian, who ignored him. Silence covered the room like a heavy blanket. 

"You staying on top of the schoolwork you're missing?"

"Yes, sir," Holden said. He tucked his feet up under himself, and wrapped his blanket tighter, so he took up less space on the couch. He put his book on the coffee table, neatly lined up with the corner.

"I always see you reading, but I'm not sure I've seen you actually read a school book," said Bill.

"I like reading," said Holden. "I get my schoolwork out of the way fast, so I can read other stuff.” He watched intently as Bill quickly finished off his toast. “How did it go in Manassas?"

"What?" Bill wiped crumbs off his undershirt.

Holden sat up even straighter somehow. "You were in Manassas on Monday, I thought. Before you got sick. How-- how did it go?"

Bill smirked. "It went fine." 

"Did you, um… catch…?"

"A bad guy?" Bill shook his head. "None of your business, kid."

Holden stared at him. Bill turned away. 

Brian arranged his blocks neatly by the side of the room and stood up, holding his favourite toy truck. He just stood there, gazing somewhere by the coffee table.

"Hey Bri-bear," said Bill. "Wanna come sit with Dad?" 

Without a glance, Brian clambered over to the couch and crawled up next to Holden. Holden gave him a fond look, but didn't reach out to cuddle him.

Brian had rejected him in favour of Holden many times, but this one hit Bill harder. Maybe it was because he was sick, but it felt like a stab of something sour and uncomfortable in his stomach and his neck. He sighed. 

He noticed the remote control on the other side table, so he turned on the TV. It was a re-run of Star Trek. Holden perked up. Bill kept changing channels through soap opera after soap opera.

"Um..." Holden hesitantly said. "We could watch Star Trek."

"Really?" asked Bill. "I think the Gong Show's on."

A brief look of distaste passed on Holden's face. "Okay," he said.

"You don't like Gong Show? Gene Gene the Dance Machine might be there.”

"Sure, Bill.” 

Bill looked at him, then turned the channel back to Star Trek.

Holden smiled shyly. "Thanks, Bill. This is a really good episode.”

"I thought you didn't like Star Trek."

Holden frowned. "I don't like Star _Wars_."

"My mistake," Bill said, making a conciliatory gesture. He put the remote aside. 

Brian pushed his toy truck along the arm of the couch. Bill watched him, sipping his beer. 

About five minutes into the episode, Bill fell asleep. He woke up some time later when Holden put a knitted blanket on top of him.

"Nuh?" 

"You were snoring," said Holden, wide-eyed. "I don't know. I thought you were cold." 

"Shit," said Bill, coughing a bit. He pulled the blanket around himself more. "Sorry, kid."

"That's okay." Holden retreated back to his own cocoon of blankets.

Brian was asleep on the couch. He had a throw blanket on top of him, too. 

The episode was still on. A pointy-eared alien was talking. “Bet he's your favourite, huh?" said Bill. 

Holden furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry?"

"Your favourite. Is it Mr. Spock? The alien?"

"Spock is _half Vulcan_ and half human," said Holden, not turning his face from the television. "He's all right. I like all of them. But my favourite is Captain Kirk."

"Really?" 

"Yes."

Bill tilted his head. "Kind of a jock, isn't he?"

Holden turned to Bill, his mouth open in shock. "Captain Kirk is… warm, and charming, and brave. He's a great captain. A tactical genius. He's outsmarted _brilliant_ foes." 

"Okay," said Bill. 

"He always knows the right thing to say," Holden went on. "Aliens respect him. Everyone respects him. Everyone _loves_ him. Even McCoy. Even Spock."

"All right, I get it," said Bill. 

"He's very confident, and he's right to be confident," Holden continued, after a small, thoughtful pause. “I suppose at first glance one could write him off as some kind of jock. And he'll be ruthless if you're on the side of evil. Or threatening his crew. The Enterprise is the most important thing to him. The crew is his family, and he's kind of the…" Holden fell silent.

The kid could be so quiet for so long, that Bill sometimes forgot how loquacious he would get when he had a bee in his bonnet. At least when he was talking about Captain Kirk, he wasn't asking questions about murder. 

With that in mind, Bill nodded at the TV. There was a big-headed teenaged boy on the screen. "So what's this kid's deal?"

"That's Charlie," said Holden. "He's only in this one episode. He was shipwrecked as a kid, and grew up on a planet with aliens that are just psychic entities, so they don't have bodies. They gave him psychic powers so he could survive. Now the Enterprise is trying to take him back to his relatives." 

"Psychic powers, huh?" Bill sipped at his beer. 

"Yes. He didn't grow up around people, so he doesn't know how to relate to other humans. He never learned how humans are supposed to handle their emotions. And his powers are too strong. When people are mean to him, or when a girl rejects him, he ends up hurting them or making them disappear." 

"Sounds like that kid from the Twilight Zone," said Bill. "The one with the cornfield."

"Yes," said Holden. "But that kid was evil. He had control of his powers, and he liked to hurt people. Charlie's powers are more… tied to his feelings. He's just protecting himself. Kirk tries to teach him. When the aliens come to take him back, Kirk tries to convince them to let Charlie stay." Holden shrugged his blankets up further, burrowing under even more. “The aliens don’t love. Charlie _wants_ to be with humans. He wants to connect with them. But he can only hurt them. So the aliens take him away." 

“Sounds like kind of a sad episode."

"Yeah."

"So Captain Kirk doesn't always save the day."

"I didn't say he always saves the day," said Holden. "But he always tries."

\--

Bill dozed off for the rest of the episode. When he woke again fully, it was to the sound of Holden taking out a big pot of Nancy's chicken noodle soup from the fridge. 

The coffee table had been tidied, and Brian was still fast asleep. Holden had perfect timing. When he finished setting the table, and the house smelled of warm chicken soup, Brian woke from his nap, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. 

Bill took Brian to the bathroom and helped him wash his hands. He settled Brian into his high chair at the dining table. 

Holden dished out soup for all of them, and had a much easier time of coaxing Brian into eating than Nancy ever did. When Nancy would sometimes spend up to an hour pleading, Holden managed to get Brian to eat with nothing more than a glance. 

"You're really good with him, you know," said Bill. 

"Thank you," mumbled Holden. 

"People would think you're really brothers."

Holden blinked, staring straight down at his soup. Bill regretted his words for a minute. Maybe Holden _did_ think of Brian as his real brother. 

"I never wanted siblings," Holden finally said. "I liked being alone with my mother. I didn’t get along with the other foster kids. The parents would always say we were a family, and that we were supposed to be brothers and sisters. Especially the Walkers. But..." 

Bill tried not to react too much. He hadn’t forgotten Holden’s funny business from Christmastime, how tight-lipped he was about any of his previous families. While his fears about Brian had lessened— somewhat— Bill wasn’t proud to admit that he still had fears about Holden’s mysterious past coming back in some unsavoury fashion, particularly around Brian. 

The Walkers were the Baptist family in Charlottesville, Bill remembered. With the pastor father that Holden _provoked_. Holden lived there for a year right before he lived with Brian in Lynchburg. 

“By the time I got to Lynchburg, I was old enough that people had started to leave me alone. The Mullens treated me more like a guest, which is what I wanted. But I liked Brian, because he's so quiet. We were kind of the same. I got along better with him. So I guess... yeah, I guess we are like brothers."

“Well,” Bill said, mostly because he didn’t want to spook Holden out of this sharing mood. “It’s sure been good for him to have you here. Right, Brian?” Bill leaned down to the table, trying to see Brian’s eyes. “You like having Holden here, right?”

“I love Ho-den,” Brian said, as matter-of-factly as a four-year-old could, not looking up from his bowl. 

Holden didn’t seem to know what to do with this news. He looked at Brian, then down at his own bowl, and then was quiet for a very long time. 

"I was wondering," Holden eventually said, sitting up straighter, his expression clearing a bit. When he was expected to look inward, he always crumpled up and his face would get dark, but when he was curious about something, he'd light right up. "Do you and Nancy have any brothers or sisters? I thought because there was nobody else at Christmas that maybe not, but I suppose it was special because of Brian."

Bill couldn't help a soft smile. "Yeah," he said. "It was special because of Brian. Usually at Christmas we go back west.”

"Back west?"

“Well, the midwest.” Bill took a long sip from his beer. "Nancy has two younger sisters and one older. Youngest lives in California, she's kind of a hippie. Single, bunch of cats, I don't know. Second youngest's married to an army man, so they've moved bases a few times. The oldest lives in Cleveland with her husband and kids, close to Nancy's mom. So usually we all go to Cleveland for the holidays.”

"Cleveland," Holden said, with next to no inflection. 

Bill watched Brian sip at his soup. He looked up at Holden. "Maybe this year we'll host," he said. "I have a feeling Brian wouldn't like travelling. Maybe just the California sister can come visit." 

Holden let out a breath. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a sister,” said Bill. “She’s a little younger than me. She lives in Ohio, too. Takes care of our dad. He’s pretty sick.” 

“You’re the oldest?” Holden blew right past the sick dad stuff, or didn’t seem to hear it.

“Yup,” said Bill.

“And Nancy’s in the middle,” Holden said, lips turning up in the way they did when he thought he had a good idea. “That makes sense.” 

“Oh?” Bill humoured him.

“You’re a protector. And Nancy was a nurse. She takes care of people. Middle children are caretakers.” 

Bill smirked, a little, but it faded fast. He wasn’t feeling 100%, after all.

“I think birth order is fascinating,” said Holden. “How it shapes a person’s psychology. I can imagine you being very protective towards your little sister, after what Nancy has told me.”

Bill huffed a laugh. “My sister and I are Irish twins.”

Holden blinked. “What’s that?”

“She was born nine and a half months after me.”

Holden’s eyes widened very slightly. “Oh, wow.” Another moment to digest the information, head tilting a little. “Is it okay to call that Irish twins?”

Bill chuckled. “Who knows?”

“She was still younger than you,” said Holden. “And a girl.”

“Yeah, but we were in the same grade and everything. Anyway.” He toyed with his beer can on the table. Looked at Brian. “We don't really talk anymore.”

Holden looked uncomfortable. Whether it was his lack of social graces, or confusion about his role, or just that he’d never been taught how to talk about things like this, he clearly didn’t know what he was supposed to say. 

“I had a little brother,” Bill finally said. He didn’t know why he said it. He hadn’t spoken those words in years.

Holden’s shoulders went up. “Had?”

Bill cleared his throat, and stood. “Thanks for heating the soup. Why don’t I clean up and look after Brian? I think you have more homework you’re not telling me about.”

Holden sank back. “Yes, sir,” he said, very quietly. 

\-- 

Holden went back to school on Thursday. 

Bill thought he was feeling well enough to go back to work, but Nancy insisted he spend another day at home. She used her nursing background to argue-- "We can't afford for you to get sick again. If you don't let yourself heal you'll just get worse later. You have kids to provide for now." 

Bill suspected, however, that Nancy just wanted some time to herself. He looked after Brian all day while she ran errands. 

He finally made it back to work, briefly, on Friday. He said good morning to Wendy, and she made a face like he was something she had stepped in, ruining her designer heels.

“Please don’t get me sick,” she said. He heaved a sigh and took a step away from her office door.

He stayed long enough to have a quick meeting about her and Gregg’s first interview— it had gone poorly, but he had halfway suspected that it would, and assured them they just needed to get into the swing of things. He reminded Gregg about their first few interviews with Kemper, how they didn’t even have a tape recorder, how long it took for them to muddle through the truth around all the manipulation; and that Kemper was extremely rare in his willingness to talk. 

After meeting with him, Wendy and Gregg both seemed more excited about going back to their subject, after a cooling off period. Or, who knows. Wendy was unflappably professional and Gregg was terminally upbeat. Bill didn’t know how either of them did it without smoking. 

Jim informed him that Manassas had a lead on the bus driver, but with no real evidence to link him to the Raza case, Detective Slováček was unsure about bringing him in. 

“I thought it was a good call,” said Jim. “She said they think he might be involved in some small drug deals. If they can get him on possession, she’ll bring him in for that.” 

“Smart plan,” said Bill. “She’s still following up on that drug dealer?”

“He was cooling his heels in holding the entire time frame of the murder,” said Jim. “But all that means is Sammy went to the Circle-K and didn’t find the guy. Clerk said he saw him hanging around a little closer to midnight.” 

“Narrows the window,” said Bill. 

“Yeah,” said Jim. “Now, get out of here. My wife’s bringing the kids up for the weekend, and I don’t want to send them back sick.” 

Bill picked up some items for Nancy on his way home. She was in a better mood than he’d seen her in a long time. They sat down to eat without Holden. 

"Is he still at the library?" Bill asked, panicking slightly. "Was I supposed to pick him up?"

"He's at the movies,” Nancy said, watching Brian eat, a huge, doting smile on her face. “With a _girl_. They got burgers first.”

Bill was a seasoned law enforcement officer with decades of experience, but he almost choked on his cheesy broccoli. “Really?”

Nancy spilled over with pride. “You should have seen him ask me for permission this morning. God. He was so nervous. Oh!” She turned in her seat, folded up her napkin. “Bill, I think we should give him an allowance.”

“What?” 

“I know it’s another thing we didn’t plan on,” she said. “And I know the agency doesn’t cover it. But it’s just five dollars a week. Enough so he can take a girl to a movie without asking us for money.” 

“Well,” sighed Bill. “You’re the one who handles the household finances.” 

“I don’t think five dollars a week will break us. You spend more than that on cigarettes. Aren’t you due for a raise? You basically built that unit from scratch.”

Bill shoved more cheesy broccoli into his mouth, and took his time chewing. "Do we have to wait up for him?"

"He has a key," said Nancy. "But I'm going to wait up for him just in case."

Predictably, they didn't have to wait up very long. The door gently opened a little before 10:00 PM, just as Bill started to drift off on the couch. 

"Hey sweetie," said Nancy. "How was the movie?"

Holden put his jacket and boots away in the closet. He came into the living room and stood there for a while, carrying his knapsack, looking blank-faced and inscrutable as always. 

"It was amazing," he finally said. 

Bill sat up, rubbing his eyes. Holden was not dressed the way Bill would think he'd dress for a date-- or maybe exactly the way he would? He was dressed the same as always. Slacks and a neat, button-down shirt. It must have been something Nancy had bought him, because it was slightly too big, and he had folded the cuffs up. 

"What did you see?" asked Nancy. 

"Wizards." Instead of going straight to his room like always, Holden came over and sat on the couch, where Bill had just made space. He sat straight-backed, hugging his knapsack to his chest. "Debbie picked it."

“And you liked it.” Nancy fiddled with her knitting. “That’s nice. What’s it about?”

Holden's eyes were wide, and he seemed to struggle for the words. "It was about… war, and propaganda, and religion, and good and evil and… compromising your values to survive?"

Nancy dropped her knitting in her lap, frowning. "I thought this was a cartoon."

"It was," said Holden. "It was brilliant. And Debbie says that in two weeks the retrospective cinema is showing another movie this director made. It's called Fritz the Cat. She says we should see that, too."

Bill snorted. 

"Well, that sounds cute,” Nancy said approvingly. "What's that about?"

"Debbie says it's like… a grown-up Catcher in the Rye.” 

Bill tried, and failed, to stifle a laugh. 

"What's wrong with you?" asked Nancy. "Have you seen this movie?"

"Yes," said Bill. He'd gone with some local cops in LA a few years ago. Three of the cops walked out on it, but Bill stayed for the whole thing, since he had nothing better to do. "You wouldn't like it," he told Nancy. 

"Why not? I like cats."

"And you hated Catcher in the Rye," said Bill. Nancy rolled her eyes and went back to her knitting. "And that's not the point," continued Bill. "Fritz the Cat is not cute. It’s disgusting.” 

Holden looked between them with excitement. "Well, I haven't read Catcher in the Rye. But Debbie says this film is groundbreaking. It's about race relations and…” He blinked, trying to remember what to regurgitate. “White academic entitlement."

"Christ," grumbled Bill. He got to his feet with a groan. "You're not seeing Fritz the Cat until you're eighteen."

Holden frowned. "Debbie's fourteen and she's seen it."

"I'm not in charge of Debbie," Bill said, starting to shuffle towards the bedroom. "You're not seeing Fritz the Cat until you're eighteen, end of story. Goodnight."


	9. Driving Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill teaches Holden how to drive.

The weather was clearer that weekend, a little warmer and a little less icy. After church on Sunday, Nancy took Brian over to Barbara's for that postponed playdate, and Bill took Holden to the mall parking lot for a driving lesson.

"Just watch what I do," he said as he drove. "Remember, you want to ease off the gas and engage the clutch whenever you're changing gears. When do you change gears?"

"When the tachometer gets down to one or up to three," Holden recited nervously. "Down one, up three, down one, up three," he whispered to himself. He watched intently as Bill coasted down a hill. "You didn't look when you shifted gears. How can you tell?"

"You get used to how it feels," said Bill. "It's the revolutions of the engine. Pay attention." They were starting up another hill now, and Bill shifted gears. "You feel that?"

Holden looked like he was focusing hard. "Yes," he finally said.

"See, you'll get the hang of it." He tried to smile encouragingly at the kid, but Holden was staring intently at his hand on the gear stick, eyes big and worried. 

They parked in a far, empty end of the mall's lot, and Bill had Holden practice moves with the engine turned off. 

"Remember, clutch," he reminded the kid.

Holden looked down at his feet, confused. “There’s too many steps to do one thing,” he complained.

"You got the theory down pat." Bill lit a cigarette. "You'll get it, don't worry."

That might have been an issue with Holden, though. He got the theory just fine, but the practice was something else.

"Remember not to rest your foot on the clutch when you're not using it," said Bill.

Holden huffed in frustration. "There's too many things to remember! Why did they make it so complicated?" 

“They made it complicated so your brain is engaged while you’re driving. You’ll get it, just take it easy," said Bill.

"No!" Holden beat his hands on the steering wheel. "I hate this. I don't want to drive anymore." He crossed his arms over the wheels and buried his face in them.

Bill had to stifle a laugh. "Just like that, you're giving up?"

"Who cares," mumbled Holden.

"Come on, kid. You're not gonna get anywhere with that attitude."

Holden didn't respond. He was like a statue, sullen and stubborn.

Bill sighed. This wasn't exactly how he wanted to spend his Sunday afternoon.

"Holden," he finally barked, and Holden straightened up with a startle. "That's enough. Quit sulking."

Holden glared at him.

"You wanna go home?" Bill asked.

"Yes," Holden said.

"Well, too bad," said Bill. "Today we're learning to drive. Do it again."

Holden glared at him a little longer, then seemed to crumple on himself. He hung his head, and guiltily put his hands back on the wheel. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

So that was the first hour: a tooth-grinding fucking chore with a fucking annoying kid. When it finally seemed like he could remember how to shift gears, and stopped using his left foot on the brake or his right foot on the clutch, Bill decided it was safe to turn the engine on.

"All right," he said gently. "Let's see if you can get us into first. Don't stress though, okay?" 

"Yes, sir."

"What's the first step?"

"Um..." Holden shook sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Clutch and brake down, and then start the engine.”

"Okay. Go ahead."

Holden looked down at the pedals. He gently turned the ignition switch.

The radio, tuned to the oldies station from that morning's church drive, came on as the engine sputtered to life. _Oh yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman,_ sang the Marvelettes. _Wai-ai-ai-ait Mr. Postman._

"Okay," said Bill. "Try getting it in first." 

Holden sat still, his knuckles white from his grip on the steering wheel.

"Holden," prodded Bill.

Holden blinked. "Sorry, Bill," he said. "I-- I just remembered something. From school."

"Oh?" 

"It's not important," said Holden.

_There must be some word today_ the Marvelettes sang, _from my boyfriend so far away…_

"Turn that off if it's distracting," said Bill. When Holden scanned down the dashboard, overwhelmed, Bill reached out and turned off the radio himself. "It's better to practice without the radio on so you can focus."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to drive with the radio on," said Holden.

"You'll get there. It just takes practice. Okay. Clutch and brake down? Go ahead and put her in first."

Holden timidly shifted the gear stick. 

"Make sure it's fully engaged," Bill reminded him.

Holden lifted his hand slightly, and the gear shift stayed in place.

"Good," said Bill. "Now release the brake and let's get going."

Holden did something, but it wasn't what Bill asked. "How-- what's happening?" 

"It's okay, you just stalled out," said Bill. "Did you take your foot off the clutch?" 

"Oh, shit," said Holden.

"Language," chided Bill. "Put it back in park and try again." 

It went like this for a while. Holden had trouble releasing the brake without also releasing the clutch, and he had even more trouble easing off the clutch at the same rate that he eased onto the accelerator. The car stalled and lurched and made all sorts of terrible noises, and never actually moved more than half a foot at a time. 

As Bill found himself bracing a hand on the dashboard more than once, he wondered drily if Holden could dance.

Holden scowled and squeezed the gear stick hard. When he stalled again, he broke off a frustrated gasp. "I can't do it!" 

"Just relax," said Bill. 

"No. Fuck this." Holden yanked the gear stick back to park, and tugged impotently at his seatbelt.

"Holden!" 

"I can't do it!" Holden shouted. "I don't wanna do it. Fuck you. Don't touch me." He finally got his seatbelt free and scrambled out of the car.

Bill was so shocked at being told _fuck you_, and to a lesser extent _don't touch me_, that he just stared as Holden grabbed his knapsack out of the backseat, slammed the door shut, and stomped off. 

"Holden!" He shouted. "You little…" He hastily turned off the ignition and took back the keys. Stomped after Holden. "You come back here, you little shit." 

Holden made it as far as a lamp post a few parking spots away. He sat down hard on the pavement, slowly drawing his knees up to his chest. Bill heard him gasping when he was still ten feet away.

"Oh for God's sake," he said, sighing. "You're really going to have one of your little tantrums right now?" 

Holden just breathed. Bill could tell his chest was heaving even from behind.

This had happened a handful of times-- when Holden bolted from the room after putting his hand on Bill's thigh, for starters. And once or twice after that. When Bill and Nancy were arguing one night. Randomly in the middle of church service one time. And, Bill assumed, when he got his braces put on. 

Holden would abruptly take himself off and, if he couldn't get to his room, he'd press himself to a wall and gasp and shake and turn red and refuse to look at anyone. It was like a mini version of the big screaming fits that Brian worked himself into, but Holden swallowed it all instead of letting it out.

Nancy had told Bill to leave Holden alone when they happened and not tease him about them, but Jesus. They were annoying as shit. 

He'd learned there was nothing he could do, though, about these mini-tantrums, or Brian's full-fledged freakouts. Not unless he wanted to hoist Holden over his shoulder and haul him back home, which obviously wouldn't make things any better. That's the kind of shit Bill's father would have done, with a few wallops on top. Without any other example, the only thing Bill could do was wait.

He lit a cigarette and paced around. When Holden's breathing started to even out, Bill stepped carefully into his line of sight.

Holden stayed on the ground, folded up on himself tightly. He wiped at his face. "I'm sorry, sir," he said.

Bill took a drag of his cigarette and waited.

Holden looked up at him, squinting into the sunlight. "I really don't think I can do it. Thank you for trying to teach me. I'm sorry." 

Bill sighed, and tried not to roll his eyes clear across the parking lot. "Holden, no. Get back in the car and try again." 

"I kept stalling," Holden mumbled.

"Yeah, Holden," said Bill. "Everybody stalls at first." 

Holden blinked up at him. "Really?" 

"Of course," said Bill. "Christ, you wouldn't want someone getting the hang of it on their first try, anyway. They'd get cocky and run someone over."

Holden wiped his eyes again. "It kept making those noises."

"Yeah, it doesn't make pretty noises. It's an American manufactured car, Holden. It's not exactly a whisper quiet, space-age hovercraft." 

Holden stared down at his shoes. His fists were clenched against his knees. "It's too hard," he said, after a long, long pause. "I can't do it." 

With a groan, Bill crouched next to Holden. "Kid, there's gonna be a lot of things in your life that are hard. Especially on the first try. And most of those things are going to be a lot fucking harder than getting a car into first gear." 

Holden looked up at him, scowling.

"What?" 

"You told me off for swearing," Holden mumbled.

"Well, I'm allowed." Bill took one last drag of his cigarette, then tossed it into the distance. Exhaled the plume over his shoulder, away from Holden. "Look, I know it's hard. But it's worth it. And it gets easier. Every single time you get in the car it will get easier. I promise." 

Holden looked at him warily. "You promise?" 

"Scout's honour," said Bill. He winced, and adjusted so he was sitting flat out on the pavement instead of crouching. Thankfully he was wearing his weekend jeans and not something he'd need for work. "Soon enough you'll be able to drive without even thinking about it. It's like riding a bike." 

Holden looked back down at his shoes. "I don't know how to ride a bike," he said.

Bill furrowed his brow. Holden was ten when he entered foster care. That's plenty more than old enough to ride a bike. But given Donna Ford's primary hobby, maybe it wasn't so surprising.

"No said he was going to buy me one," Holden said. "But then…" 

A child across the parking lot shrieked with laughter. Bill looked over reflexively, and saw a young mother with two young children. He watched until they all got into their car safely. 

He got back to his feet with a grunt. "It's cold out here. Let's get in the car and try again." 

Holden put his face against his knees and hugged himself.

Bill sighed. "Holden, come on. What would Captain Kirk do?" 

Holden lifted his head. "Huh?"

"What was it you said?" Bill scratched his head. "Captain Kirk doesn't always save the day, but he always tries?"

Holden shifted a little, but stayed crouched down, staring up at Bill.

"You think Captain Kirk would give up the first time he tried to learn how to drive?" asked Bill. "Do they drive cars in the future?" 

Holden looked back at the car behind them. "I think so," he said hesitantly. He slowly stood, and dusted off his pants. "Kirk grew up in Iowa. I think he drove." 

"He probably learned by driving around all those cornfields." 

Holden hugged his knapsack to his chest. "I guess." 

"Pssshh," said Bill. "I've driven across Iowa a bunch of times. You could do that, easily." 

"You think so?" 

"Yeah," said Bill. "So what do you think? Try again?" 

Holden looked at the car, shoulders going up. "Okay, Bill." 

\--

It was still pretty rough. But in another hour, Holden got the car into first and managed to jerkily drive a circle around the parking lot. Considering how they'd started, Bill had to call that a success.

\--

On Tuesday and Thursday night, Bill took Holden out after dinner, just driving around empty little neighbourhood streets, nothing too challenging. Holden still stalled quite often, and at first he had trouble remembering the clutch when shifting to neutral at red lights, but he was getting the hang of it as fast as anybody does.

They didn't go out on Wednesday, because Holden had his first therapy session. It was scheduled for the time they usually had dinner, so their new Wednesday routine would be Bill staying alone with Brian while Nancy took Holden to his appointment. When they got home, as Bill was putting Brian to bed, Holden went straight to his room with a plate of food, and didn't speak to anyone all night. 

On Friday afternoon, Bill was able to leave work a little early, and intercept Holden at the library after school. The streets were busier with the sun still out, but Bill felt Holden was up to the task.

"Let's try going to the Piggly Wiggly," said Bill. "Pick up some snacks." 

Holden didn't make an uncomfortable noise of protest. He just nodded, staring out at the road with the alertness of a very new driver. "Yes, sir." 

They stopped at a long red light. Some teenaged girls crossed, talking animatedly.

VRROOM, VRROOM! The girls jumped, and then laughed, looking at Holden incredulously, covering their mouths. 

Bill also jumped. He almost banged his head against the roof of the car, in fact. "What are you doing??"

Holden looked at him quizzically. "I'm… revving the engine at those girls."

"_Why??_"

"Because…" Holden's grip on the wheel tightened. He swallowed. "They were pretty?" 

"Who told you to do that?" 

"Jerome."

"Who's Jerome?" 

"He's Tanya's older brother."

"Who's Tanya??"

Holden blinked. "A girl from school."

Bill blinked right back. "Okay. What the fuck does Jerome know?" 

"He has a '68 Mustang," said Holden. "He drives me home from the library sometimes."

"Really!" Bill said. "Because we thought you were walking whenever you weren't with me."

Holden shrugged. "Sometimes it's too cold." 

Bill huffed. "Well, Jerome sounds like an idiot. Don't rev the engine like that."

Holden pouted. "The girls always love it when he does it."

"The light is green," Bill said. "Take us in here. How old is this Jerome?" 

"Twenty," said Holden. "He's training for the Marines." 

Bill nodded, and waited for Holden to clumsily park them and turn off the engine. "Listen, Holden. I'm gonna tell you something that's gonna be tough to hear. But you deserve to know. Girls like it when Jerome revs his engine at them, because Jerome is a 20-year-old Marine driving a '68 Mustang. And that car almost certainly belongs to his father, not him, by the way."

Holden's brow knit, like he was utterly shocked. "Oh," he said.

"Back there, those girls saw a 16-year-old beanpole driving a 1971 _Plymouth_ with his old man. At best, they thought it was cute."

Holden's brow knit tighter, confused. "Girls like cute," he said. 

Bill sighed. "There's cute and there's cute. This was the bad kind of cute." 

That obviously did not clear anything up for Holden. He looked more confused than ever. 

"Those girls were laughing _at_ you, Holden." 

That did it. Holden drew back, and lowered his gaze, scowling. 

"Look, just don't do that," said Bill. "It's not good for the engine."

Holden tugged at his seatbelt sukily. "That's all you had to say, Bill," he mumbled.

Bill felt a little bad as they went through the Piggy Wiggly, picking up some last minute items Nancy had called him about, and extra snacks for the weekend. Holden trudged after him, thumbs hooked into the straps of his knapsack, staring down at the floor. 

"I wasn't trying to burst your bubble," Bill said as they waited in line for the checkout. "I just think it's better to go into these things with both eyes open." 

Holden didn't respond.

"Maybe they liked it," Bill said half-heartedly. "Maybe they found it charming." 

Holden mumbled something Bill couldn't hear. 

"Well," Bill tried again as they carried their bags out. "If you were in a '68 Mustang, and you didn't have some guy in his 40s with you, I bet they would have liked it. They would've been flattered as hell."

Holden raised his head, looking skeptical.

"They'd think you were cute," said Bill. "The good kind of cute." 

Holden turned away a little, bashfully, but his mouth curled up a bit, and he wasn't glowering anymore. 

"And look," Bill continued. "Just last week you thought you couldn't drive at all. And now you're doing shit that's giving me a heart attack. You're good at this, Holden." 

Holden straightened up, and bit his lip. He looked unsure of how to hear these things. "Thank you," he finally said. "I think that, um… you must be really good at teaching other cops, because you're a good teacher," he said hurriedly.

Bill smirked, and turned away. Holden was mumbling, so he could pretend he hadn't heard it. 

"Why do you care about girls, anyway?" asked Bill, as they got back in the car. "Aren't you dating that Debbie?" 

"No," said Holden. Then: "I don't know. We're friends." 

"Ah," said Bill. He watched Holden start the car and go through the laborious, jerky process of getting them back on the road. "And what about this Tanya?" 

"She's my friend. I think. She's in tenth grade. She was a new kid the same time I was. So she's always been nice to me." 

"You should tell Nancy you're making all these friends. She'd be real happy to hear that," said Bill.

"Okay," said Holden. He sat straight up, and even with his hands tight on the wheel, he managed to rub his fingers together nervously. Better than having a jerky foot while driving, Bill figured. 

"How'd you meet Tanya if she's in tenth grade?" Bill asked, because Holden kept chewing his lip and Bill thought he was getting too deep in his own head to be on the road.

"Um," Holden carefully turned a corner. "The ninth and tenth graders have gym class together. They split us up by height. We do basketball and volleyball together. Because Tanya's kind of tall for a girl. And I'm kind of… tall… for a ninth grader." 

"What about Debbie?"

Holden shook his head. "Debbie's tiny. They put all the smallest girls together." 

"I meant, how did you meet Debbie?"

"She's in some of my classes," said Holden. "She skipped seventh grade. And she's in IB English. And history. And an IB class called Theory of Knowledge, which you need special permission to take. She's really, really smart." 

Bill didn't know what IB meant, but he was willing to take Holden's word for it. "She sounds great."

"She is," said Holden. "I really like her. Um, so, Valentine's Day is coming up."

"Oh, shit," said Bill.

Holden snuck a brief glance at him. "Did you forget?"

"I haven't forgetten." Bill frowned. "It's too early to forget. What is today? January 30th?"

"It's February 4th," said Holden.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Bill.

Holden snuck another glance at him. "Um, I was thinking… if you want to take Nancy out for dinner, I can watch Brian. I mean… that's what I'm supposed to be doing anyway, right? Help with Brian." 

Bill watched him drive for a while. "That's a nice offer, Holden. I don't know. We haven't had a night away from Brian yet. It might be too early."

"Well, I used to watch Brian all the time in Lynchburg. And the other kids. So I don't mind. Just if… it's on the table, if you want to take her out." 

"I'll run it by her. Thanks, kid." Bill cracked the window and lit a cigarette. "Oh, Nancy wants to start giving you an allowance." 

They came to a stop sign. Holden looked befuddled. "You… you don't have to--" he started.

"Kid, just take the damn money," said Bill. "I'll give it to you on Sunday. Five bucks a week. Ten this time, because I forgot last week. Okay? You can go, by the way. All clear." 

Holden still looked puzzled as he eased the car into the three-way intersection for a right turn. "Thank--"

CRASH!

Bill saw it precisely a split second too late-- an ugly Pinto racing down the street, smashing into the driver's side. Holden's side. 

The Pinto shoved them up onto the curb. 

Bill immediately reached for Holden. "You okay?" 

Holden hunched up on himself, cringing, but whole. "Yeah," he said weakly. He tugged at the gear shift shakily, putting the car in park. 

The other driver got out of the Pinto, cursing. Bill yanked off his seatbelt and threw open the door. If the other driver wasn't already walking, Bill would have dragged him out of his car.

"What the fuck's the matter with you!" he shouted, getting right up in the other driver's face. "You hit my fucking kid!"

The guy got right back up in his. "He turned without looking!"

"You were speeding!" 

"Doesn't matter, I had the right of way! That's the law, buddy." 

"Oh, the law?" Bill pulled out his badge. "Here's the fucking law, pal!" 

"You can't do that," the other driver sputtered, stepping back. "Stay away from me!" 

"You hit my fucking kid, you piece of shit!" Before he knew what he was doing, Bill threw a livid fist. 

The other driver ducked out of the way. Bill's fist banged into the Pinto's hood, hard.

"Jesus! G-man's taking a swing at me!" The other driver shouted loudly. "You're a psycho! I'm calling the cops!" He ran towards a nearby house. People were opening their doors and peeking out of windows.

"Fuck!" Bill punched the Pinto's hood again. This time he left a dent, and his fist was bloody.

He turned back to the wreck. His blood went cold when he realized Holden hadn't moved.

"Shit." He pulled the driver's door open and crouched by the kid. "Are you all right?" 

"Yeah," Holden murmured. "I'm okay, Bill."

"You sure?" Bill reached out and touched Holden's head. "Can you stand?" 

"Yeah."

"Carefully." Bill helped Holden out of the car, and once he had the kid standing in front of him, he squeezed his arms, looking for any injuries.

"I'm fine, Bill," Holden said. "He didn't hit the door. See? Just the front of the car."

The kid was right. The nose of the car had taken all the damage. The windshield and the driver's window had cracked, but not shattered, and no part of the door was impacted.

Still.

"You're shaking," said Bill.

"So are you," Holden said. "Are you okay?" 

Bill huffed. He could barely see straight. He pulled Holden closer and put his arms around him loosely, in an approximation of a hug.

Holden stood stiffly, arms rigid by his sides.

Bill closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't know who this hug was for. 

"Hey, are you okay?" a voice called out. "Do you need to call someone?"

A middle aged lady stood in front of her house nearby. 

"Yeah," said Bill. "Thanks. Can we use your phone?"

"Of course," said the lady. "Come inside. Your son can have some cocoa." 

Unthinking, Bill reached down to snag Holden's wrist, and started leading him to the house. 

There was so much in Bill's head. He'd have to tell Nancy. They'd be down a car for a week or two. If he had to take hers to work, it would be a huge pain in her ass. And he wasn't sure Nancy had gotten around to putting Holden on the insurance yet. If she hadn't, they were fucked six ways from Sunday. And he'd _told_ Holden he was all clear. He didn't see it coming.

He'd taken a fucking swing at that fucking guy. His hand was fucking bloody. 

"Bill?" Holden tugged his arm away. "My bag."

"What? Oh." He stayed close as Holden got his knapsack from the car, then took the kid by his wrist again, and led him to the Good Samaritan's house.


	10. The Bus Driver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Jim Barney interrogate the bus driver in the case of Samuel Raza's death.

That stupid Pinto shot the weekend all to hell. 

Nancy was, predictably, frantic when Bill told her what had happened. She insisted on taking Holden to her old hospital to get him checked out, just in case, leaving Bill alone with Brian until very late on Friday night. 

Thankfully, she had put Holden on their insurance before Bill actually started taking him out in the car. 

"But just by the skin of our teeth!" she said. "We need to communicate more, Bill."

Holden hid in his room all weekend. Nancy said he was a little stiff and achy from the crash, which Bill believed. 

Bill had a slight ache in his neck as well, and he wasn't as close to the impact. He went to bed early on Sunday, and just lay there in the dark. 

"What's wrong with you?" Nancy asked as she got into bed.

"Nothing," Bill muttered. 

"You've been a crumbum all weekend," she said. 

"Sorry." He turned on his side, away from her, and clutched the pillow under his head. It was one of those nights where he just couldn't get comfortable. 

"Bill, it was just a fender bender," Nancy sighed. "The insurance is covering it. There's no need to be so crusty to Holden."

"I'm not-- what? Crusty?" He turned to glance over his shoulder at her. "I'm not mad at Holden."

"Well, I think he thinks you are. The way you two have been avoiding each other all weekend. Poor thing looks like he's waiting for the hammer to drop."

Bill turned away again. Closed his eyes. 

He heard Nancy put her book aside. "Bill, obviously something is wrong."

Bill sighed. "It's…" He didn't even know what it was he wasn't saying. 

Nancy hadn't noticed his bloody knuckles when she was fussing over Holden on Friday night. She didn't seem to notice the scrape on his hand all weekend. Holden clearly hadn't told her that Bill had almost knocked that guy out. 

Bill just kept _thinking_ about it. The Pinto suddenly blasting into his field of vision, Holden cringing and curling up against the impact. The _thunk_ of the Pinto's hood denting under his fist. 

"You can talk to me," said Nancy. "You used to talk to me." 

_Did I?_ thought Bill. 

"It's nothing, Nance," he said. "I’m just tired." 

\--

The insurance company wasn't open until Monday, so Bill had to call them in the morning, when he was already late for work. They wanted him to somehow go all the way to Triangle to pick up his loaner car. 

Taking a cab to work, or Triangle, would be too expensive, and Nancy needed her car for groceries or if something happened with Brian. 

Bill was already in a terrible mood, and halfway longing to stay in bed all day. He hadn't taken the bus to work since his twenties, and he wasn't even sure he knew how. He called the office to let him know the situation, but Jim offered to come pick him up.

"Manassas PD brought in the bus driver," he said. "They found cocaine in his locker at work. He's been stewing in it since six this morning." 

So Jim came all the way down to Fredericksburg to get him, and Bill greeted him with some of Nancy's home brewed coffee in a Thermos.

Jim let Bill drive his Bureau-leased car, so he could read the file Slováček had already faxed over. 

"The guy's name is Ian Maynard. He's been driving buses for Prince William County for about three years." Manassas was one of those towns that, even though it was part of Prince William County for a bunch of other municipal services, insisted on having its own, separate police department. "This guy's a mess. He's in his late forties, and hasn't been able to hold a job for more than a few years."

"Any priors?" asked Bill.

"Two assaults, back in his twenties. Nothing since then, except for this drug stuff now. Looks like he's been a casual user for years, but he had enough in his work locker that they could get him on an intent to distribute."

"Well, what is drug dealing if not a back-up plan for the sporadically employed?" Bill quipped. "Did I hear you correctly when you said _late_ forties?" 

"Yep." 

"Huh. For some reason I pictured this guy closer to the victims' age. Maybe late twenties." 

"Oh?" Jim glanced over at him. "Is that from something in your interviews?" 

"The thing is," said Bill. "Most of the guys in our study killed women. And usually they'd go after young women, even as the killers got older. We have a very small pool of killers who went after men. It's hard to say. Preying on young boys seems like the obvious thing, but these aren't exactly _young boys_. I just don't know what to make of this. It's all new to me." 

"The work you're doing up here is exciting," said Jim, "precisely _because_ it's so new."

"Yeah, but it doesn't help if there's some jackass out there beyond our scope." Bill sighed. 

"Well, this guy seemed troubled for a while. He had a normal childhood, as much as anyone does. He was even in a gifted class when he was in elementary school. But suddenly in middle school his grades start tanking, and he starts getting in trouble. Playing hooky, smoking reefer, shoplifting. Some vandalism. Nothing violent. Or at least nothing violent that he got in trouble for. Prankster stuff." 

"What about his parents?" asked Bill. "Do we know anything about them?"

"Yeah, Slováček and Key did a lot of asking around as they were investigating him. Family seems normal. Again, as much as any family does. Ian has a younger sister who's doing well. Dad died about a decade ago, but the marriage was good. When Ian started getting in trouble in middle school, his parents took him to a counsellor. He was diagnosed with _minimal brain damage_, whatever that means."

"Huh," said Bill. "Did he hit his head or something?"

"Doesn't look like it. It's supposed to be a kind of learning disability. But it didn't make any sense, his parents said, because he'd done fine in school up until then. He still graduated on time." Jim scanned down the report a bit more. "He was drafted, but got a Section 8 pretty quickly. Army doctors gave him a different diagnosis-- manic-depressive reaction."

"Shrinks really don't know anything, do they?" Bill grumbled.

"I think it's harder to tell what's going on with kids," Jim said, which did not comfort Bill at all. "So after this manic-depressive thing, he gets put on medication, but it doesn't turn his life around. Last twenty years he's just been floating around from job to job all over the place. He has two children by two different women, never been married. Lived in Philadelphia for a while, and Baltimore. Came back to Manassas a few years ago, started driving the bus, and lives with his mom." 

"Lives with his mom," Bill repeated. "So what were his priors?" 

"Oh, yeah." Jim flipped back a page in the report. "Two simple assaults. Bar fights. Spent a few months in prison for the first one, about a year for the second one. Stayed out of trouble while he was in there." 

"And then he just stopped?" Bill furrowed a brow.

"Looks like it. Well, he moved to Philadelphia then, but he didn't get into any trouble there." 

"He smarted up," said Bill. "So he wouldn't get caught." 

"Learned to not be so impulsive?" Jim offered. "Learned to take his time and plan?"

"I don't know," said Bill, frowning. "Is there anything about how he treated his ex-girlfriends?" 

"Not in here," said Jim. "Of course, that just means they didn't report anything."

They fell silent for a while, just Stevie Nicks singing on the radio as Bill drove.

"Our guy has to be a homo," Bill said. "I don't really see the point, if he's not attracted to young men."

"Lots of homosexuals have relations with women," said Jim. "And he could be bisexual. Or ambisexual."

Bill made a face. "Now, I've heard about that, but is that really a thing?" 

"Sure," said Jim. "A lot of people are at least a little bisexual. Even if they don't know it." 

"That doesn't seem right to me," said Bill.

"Haven't you read Kinsey?"

"No. I'm sure I have not read Kinsey." 

"It's a big world out there, Bill," said Jim, looking through the file. "Takes all types."

"Hmm," said Bill. "The simple assaults. Were they at queer bars?"

"Doesn't say," said Jim. "What are you thinking?" 

Bill smoked his cigarette slowly. He felt an uncomfortable little headache coming on, right between his eyes. "Life's got to be hard, if you're queer," he finally said. "No matter how you slice it."

"Yeah, I bet," said Jim.

"Even if you're bisexual and find a woman to marry. She might not like it. You might not even tell her." 

"You'd be missing a connection," Jim played along. "How intimate could you be with your wife if she doesn't know that about you?" 

"And it's not like you can go to queer bars," said Bill. "Someone might see."

"Could lose your wife," agreed Jim. He waited as Bill exhaled another plume. "What's your angle here?"

"What was it you said last time about our boys? They were all the pinnacle of male desirability or something?"

"You think it's homosexual rage?" Jim asked. "He's attracted to them, and he hates them for that?"

"But there wasn't even a rumour of queerness around any of our boys," said Bill. "I mean, kids keep secrets from their parents, but _someone_ would've known if they were that way."

"Sammy Raza went looking for drugs," Jim said thoughtfully. "Sometimes that comes with certain, uh… quid pro quos."

"Sure, but would he really stoop to that? I believe his sister. Sammy smoked grass sometimes, but that doesn't make him a hophead. Jeremy Adams was loaded, so he wouldn't have to. Now, Craig Ward did have a little marijuana in his system when he died. But he had a very busy courseload, and a part-time job. He blew off steam, but I don't think he had the time to get so invested in drugs that he'd have to trade handies." 

"Maybe that's part of the rage," said Jimmy. "They're unavailable. Maybe he picks them up to buy them drugs or alcohol, suggests this alternative form of payment. They refuse, he flips out." 

"You know what would be useful," said Bill, "is if we could find any kids who went along with that suggestion. Who could identify someone who's out there doing that."

"Well, good luck getting a kid to say so." Jim put his elbow up on the car door, put his hand thoughtfully to his chin. "Maybe that Circle-K guy will roll over on some of his colleagues. That might be a lead." 

"Did this Ian person have any grass in his work locker?" 

"No, just the cocaine," said Jim.

"That's a pretty big progression." 

"But what are the chances he didn't also know where to get grass?" 

"I don't know." Bill took another long, unhappy drag. "I don't know about any of this."

\--

"Tell me why you think this guy killed Samuel Raza," Bill asked Slováček, after they'd come into the precinct and hung their coats on chairs, forming a cramped, tight circle around Officer Key's desk. 

"All right," she said, opening her little notebook with determination. Her blonde hair was once again in a simple, tight ponytail, though some strands in the front had come loose. 

Bill was pretty sure she was wearing the same plaid blouse as last time. There was a hole in the shoulder seam that had been clumsily mended by hand. She must've bought her clothes the same place Nancy bought Bill's: the sales rack at K-Mart.

_Fuck_, he thought. _They gotta pay us more._

"Ian Maynard has a history of assault on young men," said Slováček. "He had 50 grams of cocaine in his work locker, which means it's likely he's been selling it. His alibi was that he was partying with some friends on New Year's Eve, but his friends are about as reliable as he is. And there's this." 

She gestured at a map on the wall, with some lines drawn on in marker. "The party was here, only about three blocks from that druggy Circle-K." Both locations were marked by a pin, as well as the Raza house, the restaurant, and the dump site. 

"And, these are the routes Maynard drove in the last year. Since September he's been on this route around Manassas." She pointed at a blue line that zigzagged between Battlefield Park and the Occuquan River. 

"For most of the year before that, he ran the commuter express to DC." The other line was drawn in red. "Gainesville, Wellington, Manassas. Then all the way to Washington, loop around the National Mall, stop near the Pentagon, and back home again." 

Bill stared at the map. The DC route was _so close_ to Georgetown University, but not quite. He supposed Jeremy Adams could have easily wandered towards this bus route in search of drugs of alcohol. "Did he ever do this commuter route at night?"

"I think there's a night version," said Slováček. "But he was on the morning commute. He'd start at 4:00 AM."

"4:00 AM?" Bill winced. 

"Depending on who you ask, that's still night time," said Key. 

"Does Prince William County ever send buses to Bethesda?" Jim asked. "I can't see why they would."

"But you get so many regional buses in Washington," said Slováček. "It might not be strange to see one get lost. I'd assume it was a new driver. Are you thinking of that rich kid? From last summer?" 

"Maybe," said Bill. 

"Charlottesville is a ways from Prince William County," said Jim. "He’d have to drive his own vehicle there." 

"Charlottesville?" Slováček looked caught out. "There's a third one? I thought there were only two." 

"Three so far," Bill said grimly.

"If they're related," Jim added.

Slováček frowned. "Well… I don't know about that." She pointed at the blue line again. "All I know is that since September, Ian Maynard has driven past the Raza's house, the Raza's restaurant, _and_ the dump site almost every day. And for almost every day since Sammy's body was discovered."

"And he was touching himself," Key mumbled.

"Yeah, exactly," said Slováček. "And he had enough cocaine in his locker to fuel a porno shoot. The guy's a creep." 

"Was he trying to sell it to kids?" asked Jim.

"He was gonna sell it to _somebody_," said Slováček. 

"Okay," said Bill. "Let's go see him."

Slováček took them to the interrogation room. They looked in through the one-way mirror. 

Ian Maynard sat alone at the table. He was white, short and skinny, so skinny he was swimming in his bus driver's uniform. He looked like a little kid wearing his older brother's winter coat-- except for his face. Ian Maynard was pushing fifty, and he looked it, despite having all his hair. 

Maynard hunched over himself, elbows on the table, tearing a piece of paper into smaller and smaller shreds. An empty styrofoam cup lay on its side. Maynard fidgeted so hard he rocked back and forth in his seat, muttering to himself. "Stupid fuck. You stupid fucking idiot." 

"Looks kind of old for this," said Bill. "And small. A little skinny and frail to have taken down a teen athlete like Sammy." 

"He tied Sammy up," Slováček offered.

"Would've had to get him drunk first," said Jim. 

"Has he been mirandized?" asked Bill.

"Yeah. But he doesn't know we found the cocaine yet. He thinks this is just about touching himself in public." 

Officer Key stayed behind the one-way mirror as Slováček let the agents into the interrogation room. 

"Hi, Ian," Slováček said. 

Maynard looked up at them warily, drawing back in his seat. 

"These are Special Agents Tench and Barney," said Slováček.

"Special Agents?" Maynard scowled. "What, like, FBI?" 

"That's right," said Slováček, while all three took a seat. Jim made a show of looking through the file, while Bill lit a cigarette.

"Wh…" Maynard sputtered. "Why? It's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal," Bill repeated.

Maynard gawked at him. "Look, can't I go? I already said sorry. Just give me a fine or... put me in jail. Whatever." 

"Hold on, now," said Slováček. "We just want to talk."

Maynard scoffed, and hunched over himself again, ripping those paper shreds into even smaller shreds. 

"What I want to know," said Bill, "is why on earth you would do that while you're working?" 

Maynard sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, okay?" 

"But _why_?" asked Slováček. "You're working. You're driving a bus. You look out at an empty field and you think, 'Gosh, that really gets me going?'"

Maynard grit his teeth. "I told them I didn't like doing that route. I hate the timing stops. I used to bring a book, but they said it wasn't allowed."

"You used to bring a book," Bill said skeptically.

Maynard glared at him. "Yeah."

"What were you reading?" Jim asked, not looking up from the file. 

Maynard went back to shredding that paper. "The last book I had at work was Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy," he said. "But right now I'm re-reading the Lord of the Rings. They're putting out a new Tolkien book later this year." 

Bill glanced over at Jim, trying to hide his reaction. That was not the answer he was expecting.

"So without a book, you had no other option?" Slováček asked, her lip curling.

Maynard scowled. His knee jiggled. One of his boots was untied. "Like I said, I hate those timing stops. Sometimes you gotta sit for fifteen minutes. And we don't have the radio, just the dispatch. It's not a break. We have little sheds for breaks where you can use the bathroom, have a smoke, make a phone call. Read a book. Not at timing stops. You just have to sit on the bus, in case anybody gets on. I've never done well with sitting still. My teachers always said so." 

"I can see that," Bill said drily, looking at the flurry of paper gathering in front of Maynard. 

"Can we back up a moment," said Jim. "What exactly is a timing stop?" 

"It's a... synchronization thing," Maynard huffed. "If you're ahead of schedule, the timing stop is where you wait and catch up, so you're not missing people. And... I don't know. I guess I usually had a bigger catch-up than other drivers."

"Why?" asked Bill. "Because you speed?"

Maynard shrugged. "I guess so."

"I don't think a _bus_ driver should be speeding," said Bill.

"Well, yeah. Guess it's a good thing I'm obviously not a bus driver anymore." Maynard glared at the pile of shredded paper in front of himself. His knee jiggled very hard.

"Why didn't you tell your boss you wanted off that route?" asked Slováček.

"What a great suggestion, lady," Maynard sneered. "Of course I did! I liked doing express route better. Fewer timing stops. I was better at it. But what do they care? Boss tells you to do something, you don't have a choice."

"That must be frustrating," said Jim. "Feeling like you have no power."

Maynard looked confused. "Yeah? That's every job. What are you gonna do? Move to Russia?" 

"Well, I guess you could masturbate on the job," said Slováček. 

Maynard heaved a big sigh. "Okay, this is getting stupid. I already said sorry. And I've probably already lost my job. I don't get the point of you guys being dicks to me." 

"You can't think of anything else we might want to talk to you about?" asked Slováček.

Maynard stared at her, gritting his teeth. Eventually he lowered his gaze. "Okay, so..." he sighed. "I guess my boss let you look in my locker."

Slováček spread her hands in a _there you have it_ gesture. "What do you want to tell us about that, Ian?" 

Maynard shook his head, looking baffled. "It wasn't that much. I don't see why the FBI has to get involved."

"Ian," Slováček gave him an indulgent smile. "You had 50 grams. That's distribution level."

Maynard furrowed his brow. Crossed his arms. "No. No. I wasn't selling." 

"50 grams?" Slováček widened her eyes. "You're telling me that was all for you?"

"Yeah! I mean, mostly." 

"Mostly," she scoffed.

"I'm not a _drug dealer_," he said. "I take it to focus on driving. Sometimes I let one or two of the other drivers take it. The night shift guys." 

"You let them have it for free."

"Well..." Maynard looked down. "Not exactly."

"But you're not a drug dealer." 

Maynard sighed, put his elbows on the table. Covered his face. "Okay, fine. Whatever. I'm sorry. We get these long shifts, okay? I need help. I've always needed help. Ask my fucking teachers! Cocaine helps me get through the day without setting myself on fire. Sometimes the other guys need help, too."

"I get it," Jim said calmly. "I was in the Air Force. We couldn't get anything done without our go-pills. Was it like that for you in the army, Bill?" 

"Pretty much," said Bill.

Maynard straightened. He looked over at Bill with hesitant interest. "You were in the army?"

"Yep," said Bill.

Maynard sniffed. "Korea?"

Bill nodded.

"Were you drafted?" 

"Volunteer. Right out of high shool."

Maynard's gaze hardened a little. "Did you get the GI Bill?"

"Ohio State," said Bill. "Criminology." 

"Well, I guess that makes sense," said Maynard. He sniffed again, leaning back in his chair, frowning. "I wanted to enlist, but my parents wouldn't let me. They were _hep_. Mom was a flapper back in the day."

Slováček frowned. She shot Bill a glance, but he only blinked in response. Let the guy keep talking, he figured.

"But I wanted to go to university. Even though my grades were so bad in the end. So when I got drafted, I thought, great. GI Bill." Maynard shook his head. 

"What would you have studied?" asked Bill.

"Literature." Maynard smiled ruefully. "But it didn't happen." 

"You got a Section 8," Jim said, still looking in the file.

"Yeah. Thanks for bringing that up." Maynard went back to his pile of little paper shreds. 

"Hard to find work with a Section 8," said Jim. "That must be frustrating, too." 

Maynard sighed heavily. "What do you want? You got me on the cocaine. You got me. I'm in the fucking French Connection. Just do what you're gonna do." 

"Where were you on New Year's Eve?" Slováček asked.

Maynard boggled. "I already told you. I was drinking at my friend Jane's house."

"Just drinking?"

Maynard sneered. "Fine. We were stoned. Happy?" 

"Did any kids come to your friend's house to buy drugs?" asked Bill.

"What?" Maynard scowled. "I don't know. How would I know? A lot of people were in and out." 

"So you're saying there _was_ drug dealing going on at that house," said Slováček.

"No, oh my god." Maynard sighed heavily again, like a teenager. "You guys are fucking... It was a big party, okay? And I barely remember it." He slumped over himself again, like the reality of his situation was just sinking in. "Fuck. You guys cost me my job. What am I supposed to do now? Mom... Jesus." 

"What's wrong with Mom?" Jim asked gently.

Maynard grit his teeth and fidgeted in his seat. "This is going to destroy her, is what. She's fuckin' sick, man. Cancer. She's wasting away in front of my eyes. That's why I came back to Manassas and moved in with her."

Bill frowned. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Jim. "Cancer's tough."

"Yeah, fuck off," Maynard muttered, burying his head in his arms again.

"Watch it," Slováček said. "You want us on your good side, Ian."

"Oh? Why?" Maynard glared up at her. "You already know everything."

"Do we?" asked Bill. "Is there really nothing else you want to tell us, while we're in a listening mood?"

Maynard looked utterly confused. "I... you... you want me to sit here and tell you everything bad I've ever done?"

"That would be a start," Slováček said.

"Fine," Maynard spat. "Fine. I'm a piece of shit. I'm a fucking failure. I've stolen from my bosses. I sell a little cocaine to other drivers. I speed sometimes in the bus. I've driven drunk, but never at work! I take more cocaine than I probably should, but... nothing else helps. Nothing else keeps me from _completely fucking losing it_."

"Why do you want to lose it?" asked Jim.

"_Who_ do you want to lose it on?" asked Bill.

"Oh, Jesus," said Maynard. "You dicks, for starters!" 

"Why?" asked Jim. "What's bothering you so much?"

Maynard shook his head, his mouth a grim downturned line. "Fucking everything. Mom's dying. I haven't got any money to my name. My car's not even paid off. And I..." he sighed a deep, deep sigh. "I cheated on my girl. I didn't set out to, it just... And she's pregnant. So I'm going to lose my girlfriend, and I've got a third fucking kid... I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do. What the fuck am I supposed to do?" 

"Let's talk about your kids," said Jim.

Maynard almost laughed. "Why?" 

"Your oldest is, what... seventeen now?" 

"Yeah," said Maynard, frowning. "She lives in Philadelphia with her mom."

"The next one is a son?"

Maynard nodded. "He's in Baltimore. I haven't seen him in a while." He looked a little sad, frowning at the table. "I send them money, though. When I can. I'm not a fucking deadbeat."

"You ever hit your kids?" asked Bill.

"_What_?" Maynard recoiled so hard his chair wobbled. "Jesus, no. Even if I wanted to, I don't see them often enough." 

"Well, it must be hard," said Jim. "With all that going on, with all that frustration. And when your kids mouth off… you can't hit 'em."

"Not like our parents did to us," Bill said wistfully. 

"Huh?" Once again, Maynard looked confused. "My parents never hit me."

All three of them raised their brows. Maynard was pushing fifty. There was no way his parents _didn't_ hit him, thought Bill.

"Really?" asked Jim.

Maynard shook his head. "Like I said, they were hepcats. They let me do whatever I wanted. Shit. Maybe they should've popped me a few. Maybe things would've turned out different." He ran his fingers through the snowbank of shredded paper. His knee started jiggling again. "I mean, how many dads are _proud_ when their son says he wants to be a poet? He should've told me what was up."

Bill almost did a double take. "A poet," he said.

Maynard shrugged.

"You write anything lately?" 

"Not for years," Maynard mumbled.

"So nothing I would've read," Bill sneered.

Maynard glared at him. "I had a few pieces in some magazines back in the day," he said. "Before I gave up."

"Poetry magazines," Bill said it like it was some alien thing he'd never heard of before, which it basically was. Jim gave him a look. "So you were one of the beats?"

Maynard just muttered to himself. 

"Ian," Slováček leaned forward, getting attention back from everyone in the room. "Why were you touching yourself at _that_ timing stop?"

"Jesus, lady, I told you," Maynard spat. "They make you sit there, and you're not allowed to have a book or a radio, and my mind gets restless. And sooner or later I end up thinking about sex. That's all. I'm sorry, okay? And I'll apologize to that lady. I didn't mean to upset her." 

"But the door was open," Jim said. "In the winter." 

"Yeah, you have to leave it open, so people know they can get on," said Maynard. "I don't make the rules." 

"You had to have known someone would catch you," said Slováček.

"When my mind gets to wandering, it's easy to forget where I am," Maynard said glumly. "It's been like this since I was a kid."

"So it's just a coincidence that you had a perfect view of that field," said Slováček.

Maynard screwed up his face. "What field?" 

Slováček glared at him. "The field you were _staring_ at when you were caught pleasuring yourself."

"Oh, Jesus. I wasn't staring at the field. I probably wasn't even on this planet."

"What does that mean?" asked Bill.

"I mean... I was having a fantasy," Maynard mumbled, staring down at the desk.

"About what?" 

"Who knows," said Maynard. "I'm imagining things all the time. I was reading that spy novel back then, so... probably spy stuff." 

"Spy stuff," said Slováček. "Starring girls or boys?"

Maynard blinked at her. "What?" 

"She's asking if you ever think about boys," said Bill. "She's asking if you're secretly a fag."

Maynard stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, he started laughing. "Okay," he said, pulling off his bus driver's jacket. His knee jiggled. "I've been here for hours, so there's no way I'm high. But that was just... the stupidest thing I've heard in an already Kafkaesque situation." 

"That's quite a denial," said Jim. "Usually when we ask someone if he's queer, he gets angry."

"Pounding the table," added Bill. "_I ain't no faggot_."

"Well, I'm not," Maynard said. He laughed again, a very cynical laugh. "I mean, I was a _beat_, right?" he spat, glaring at Bill. "Half my friends in Philly were queers. And you didn't spend the fifties and sixties trying to be a poet without also trying queer on for a size."

"Trying queer on for a size," Bill repeated back, enunciating each word. What a crazy fucking thing to say.

Maynard shrugged. "I'd try anything once. Enough to know I wasn't into it." He shook his head. "You guys can call me a faggot all you want. I don't care. It's just stupid, because I'm not one." 

Bill frowned.

"Fuck, maybe if I was, I wouldn't have a third kid right when I'm about to go to jail." Maynard rubbed at his face.

"What about those assaults in the fifties?" asked Slováček. "What were those about?"

Maynard frowned at her. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question, Ian," she said. 

Maynard looked to be seething. "That was a long time ago. I was just out on a Section 8. Try finding a job with that on your record. Everyone thought I was a lunatic."

"Not to mention how many people see a Section 8 and assume you're a fag," Bill said, trying it one last time.

"Yeah, sure. That was part of it. But they gave me those pills after the discharge, for the manic whatever. It was the pills. They made me nuts."

"Your medication made you nuts," Slováček said.

"I mean, it was stupid anyway. Just dumb bar fights. I didn't start them. I'm supposed to stand there and let some asshole beat me down? I hate it, you know. I’m not a violent person. I really hate that I hurt them. I think about it all the time." He sniffed. "I beat that one guy unconscious. That fucks you up, getting hit like that. And it's not easy to do. I can still feel it, on my knuckles. I hate that I have to remember that."

Bill discreetly flexed his hand under the table, feeling the phantom _thunk_ of the Pinto's dented hood. He finished his cigarette, and looked away.__

_ __ _

_ __ _

"It was just dumb young stuff," Maynard scoffed. "It wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for those pills. I stopped taking them after the second time. Things got a lot less fuzzy after that."

"When did cocaine enter the scene?" Jim asked.

Maynard sighed. "Philadelphia, I guess."

"In your beat years."

"Sure." 

"And how does the cocaine help when the pills didn't?" asked Slováček, making a skeptical face.

"I don't know. I'm not a doctor of..." he made a gesture like he was thinking of the word. "Neuroscience. Listen, it feels like I've confessed to the cocaine stuff about six times now. I know I should stop talking. I've seen cop shows. I'm just confused about why you keep badgering me!"

"There's really nothing else you can think of that we'd be interested in?" asked Slováček.

Maynard stared at the table.

"Let me just see if I'm caught up," said Jim, closing the file. "So we're all on the same page. You wanted to go to university. Study literature. Become a poet. You wanted to get the GI Bill, so you're actually happy when you're drafted. But you get a Section 8. And no matter what it's for, that's like a scarlet letter. No one wants to hire a Section 8. And Section 8s don't get their education paid for."

Bill nodded, picking up where Jim was going. "And hepcat parents, supportive as they are, are presumably not swimming in money."

"So you have to work," said Jim. "Whatever job you can get, which isn't much. And they look for any reason to let you go. You're on these pills that the doctors said would help you, but they make you nuts. You beat up a few guys at a few bars."

"Sure," said Bill. "You're young. We were all hot heads then, and you've got those pills. So you stop taking them, and you stop getting in trouble. Head to Philadelphia. Try to be a poet."

"Childhood dreams," said Jim. "They're just so elusive, aren't they? All these years later, you're not a poet. And you don't have any money. You can't keep a job. You move back home to take care of Mom. She's dying. That's rough. I understand. Mom is dying, and you've got two kids you barely get to see and can hardly support."

"And then you find out a third one's on the way," said Bill. 

Maynard looked at him, frowning, brow furrowed. He looked droopy and sad. Bill had seen that look a lot. It was regret. 

"It's just a real bitch," Bill went on. "How life doesn't work out the way you want, isn't it?"

"So you go to this New Year's Eve party," said Jim. "Blow off some steam."

"Re-live the good old days," said Bill.

Maynard huffed an unhappy laugh.

"And you don't know who's coming in and out of that house," Bill went on. "There could be drug dealing going on. Impossible for you to know." 

Jim took a photo out of the file and slid it across the table. The school photo of Samuel Raza, young and vital, with his whole life ahead of him. 

Maynard stared at the photo for a moment.

"Who is this?" he finally asked.

Slováček tilted her head, glaring daggers.

"Seventeen-year-old Samuel Raza," said Jim. "Leaves a high school party in the late evening. He goes to the Circle-K about three blocks from your friend Jane's house. He's looking for marijuana."

"Who knows," said Bill. "Maybe he's looking for anything fun."

Maynard looked between them, and then down at the photo again. He wasn't fidgeting anymore. He was deathly still.

"Ian, we want to help you," said Slováček. "But you have to tell us exactly what happened during that New Year's Eve party."

Maynard looked up at her. His mouth hung open. "I, uh... I mean, I don't know. It was a big party."

"Was he there?"

Maynard looked down at the photo again. Grit his teeth, mumbled to himself. Scratched his head. "I-- I don't know," he said. "Did something happen to him?"

"Did something happen to him?" Slováček looked aghast. "Ian, he's dead."

Maynard went white. "Wh... what?"

"He was murdered. On New Year's Eve. Don't you read the paper?"

"Wh-- no. No, I don't read the paper," Maynard said, cringing in embarrassment. "It's... it's too much to stay on top of everything."

"He was stabbed to death, and left face down in that field where you were jerking it," Slováček spat.

"Oh my god," Maynard breathed. He went even whiter, if that was possible, and took big slack-jawed, gasping breaths. "I-- Jesus. I had no idea."

"The second time that lady caught you was _after_ his body was found," she said. "How many other times did you do it? Did you jerk it when his body was still under the snow?"

Maynard blinked, his eyes getting wet. "I-- I don't-- I had no idea!"

"Let me tell you what this looks like to us," said Bill. "You're at this party. Drunk as a skunk. High as a kite. And you're a real mess. You've got a job you hate, that barely pays you enough. You don't even own your car. You've got two kids you can't support, and a baby on the way. You've got an ailing mother you're trying to take care of. A mother who let you do _anything_ you wanted, who always supported you. Who lived long enough to see you become such a fucking _failure_."

Maynard stared at him, stricken, his breath hitching.

"And then in walks Samuel Raza," said Jim. "Seventeen years old. Prime of his life. Parents have a successful business. _He's_ not going to war to pay for his education. _He's_ not getting rejected by every job he applies for. He's not saddled down with kids. He's got time to achieve _his_ dreams." 

"You just can't handle it," said Bill. "You're already so close to _losing it_ all the time."

Unbidden, Bill saw himself dragging the Pinto driver out of his car and bashing his head in. He shook his head against it, and hoped it looked like he was shaking his head in disgust.

"I didn't," said Maynard. One hand fisted in his hair, and his other arm trembled in his lap.

"But you were drunk," said Slováček. "And stoned. And those pills, way back when, they made you _nuts_."

Maynard shook his head. "It's not like that anymore. I wasn't-- I didn't take anything that would..."

"Are you sure?" Slováček sneered. "You said it yourself. You're not a neuroscientist. Do you really know what's in every bag of coke you get? How reliable is your supplier?"

"I..." Maynard gaped like a fish. "I didn't... I don't know this kid. I swear."

"You barely remember that party, though. I thought that's what you said." Slováček crossed her arms.

Maynard shook his head, his face breaking. "Oh, fuck," he breathed. He blinked against tears, and wiped them away with his sleeves. "I wouldn't. I wouldn't."

"Slova-ch-- Hilde," Bill said, standing. He whispered something to Jim, and then gestured for Slováček to meet him on the other side of the one-way. 

Officer Key stared at them, wide-eyed, as they came in. Obviously as confused as Slováček as to why Bill cut the interrogation short. 

"We almost got him," she said, once the door was closed. "We're so close." 

Bill shook his head. "It's not him. You have to end this. Stick to the drugs." 

"What?" Slováček looked aghast. Key stood behind her, mirroring her face exactly. "Agent Tench, he-- that house was full of drugs, and it was close to the Circle-K _and_ the dump site." 

"Maybe he can flip on the other guests," said Bill. "The party's a good lead. But he's not our guy." 

"He--" Slováček sputtered. "He went from _didn't_ to _wouldn't_. He's a petty criminal. A history of assault. He's barely employed. He's keeping a check on his rage, but the rage is still _there_."

"Hilde," Bill said. He paused a second, squeezing his eyes shut. _The rage is still there_ could not be enough, not for him. "I know it's important to you to close this case quickly. I know there's a lot riding on it for you. But that guy is fifteen minutes away from giving a false confession."

Slováček did a double take. "Why would he confess if he didn't do it?"

"It happens more often than you think," Bill said, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle. He'd given advice to plenty of cops, but he'd never mentored a woman like this. He hadn't imagined that he'd ever do it one-on-one, in such a charged case. "You have him questioning his memory. A person's memory is their entire reality. Once they start questioning it, anything becomes possible."

"But he might _not_ remember it," insisted Slováček. "Guy's been smoking holes in his brain for years."

"Ian Maynard has spent his entire adult life unsure of his abilities as a man," Bill said, measuring each word. "He's not a secret genius getting revenge for being overlooked. He agrees with how everyone else sees him. When you can't keep a job for more than a few years, or keep a woman by your side even when she has your kid-- eventually you internalize it. Now, I agree he has rage. But what he doesn't have is any organizational skills. Whoever killed Sammy did it carefully."

Slováček shook her head stubbornly. "He could've killed him by accident and then covered it up. A crime of passion."

Bill sighed.

"Agent Tench, I know you have two other boys you're looking into," she said. "But maybe it's a coincidence. Or... maybe he heard about those other boys and dumped him that way to make it look like they're related."

"Listen to yourself," Bill said gently. He was aware of Officer Key nervously looking between them, like a kid watching his parents argue. "You're saying that in a moment of passion, he overpowered a high school athlete almost twice his size, and tied him up? Stabbed him multiple times by accident? And then when he realized what he'd done, he left him in a field with no trace of evidence, because he knew it would look like two other crimes?"

Bill gestured at the one-way mirror. "Look at this twerp. He's smarter than he seems, but he is not a criminal mastermind."

Slováček frowned at the one-way. "Oh, god," she said. "One of his boots is untied."

"Yeah," said Bill. "Hilde, if this guy stabbed someone to death by accident, he'd wake up covered in blood, and then walk himself into the nearest police station. He would probably be crying."

He _was_ crying now, covering his face with his elbows up on the table. Jim spoke to him quietly, stalling with more questions about his time as an aspiring beat poet.

Slováček had her arms crossed, gripping her sleeves tightly, glaring at the one-way.

"Hilde," said Bill. "You've done decent work here. Especially considering how little there is to go on. You're good at this."

Her face softened a little, but not much.

"I know you have a feeling about this," said Bill. "And maybe you call it a police hunch, or maybe you call it women's intuition, I don't know."

Slováček scoffed.

"And if that instinct you have is really telling you that Ian Maynard murdered Samuel Raza… it's your case. I won't tell you what to do. I just want you to consider if what you're really feeling deep down is an instinct… or if it's pride."

Slováček remained still, staring at the one-way.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," Bill said. "When there's pressure. When you have bosses and colleagues looking at you and waiting for you to fail. But you're not doing this for them. They'll try to tell you that it's not okay to be wrong. But I'm telling you it _is_ okay to be wrong. And whenever you can see that you're wrong, you get closer to right."

Slováček sniffed. "It's not… I just want justice for his family."

"That's not your job," said Bill. "That's for the judge. You don't work for his family, Hilde. The only person you're working for right now is Samuel Raza. Your only job is finding out who killed him. It doesn't matter how long it takes, and it doesn't matter how many false leads you have to chase. That's for other people to worry about."

Slováček hung her head.

"So," said Bill, after a short pause. "What are you going to do?"

Slováček cleared her throat. Straightened up. "Sly, go get the paperwork started. We'll just get him on the cocaine, and the public indecency. Forget about the other stuff."

"Um…" Key worried at this lip. "Yes, ma'am." He left the room. 

Bill reached for a pitcher of water sitting nearby. "I'm gonna bring this to him. There's no more questions we can ask."

"Okay," Slováček said, her gaze unsteady. "Yeah. Uh, we'll take him into holding. Give him his phone call. Give him something to eat, I guess." 

"Take a minute. Get yourself together. He should hear it from you." He would have given her an encouraging smile, but she was avoiding his gaze. "See you in there." 

\-- 

"What a disappointment," Jim said as they left Manassas. 

"Can't help but agree." Bill slumped in the passenger seat, which he'd set in recline, resting his eyes. "But I was only ever about 20% sure it was him. It fluctuated a little. But never got over 20." 

"Yeah," said Jim. "I felt the same way. But it would've been really nice to have caught our guy before my little trial run here was over."

"We've still got the rest of the week," said Bill.

"True," said Jim. "We can solve three murders in one week."

Bill chuckled. "Why not? Sounds like a breeze."

\-- 

Jim dropped Bill off in Triangle, where he picked up his loaner car. It was early enough that he got to the library before Holden left. 

Holden froze in the middle of the sliding doors when he saw Bill standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

"I could've walked," he said.

"It's fine," said Bill. "Get out of the doorway before you get clipped." 

Holden pulled his knapsack up higher over his shoulders. He stared at the pavement as he followed Bill to the car. 

"Nancy says you were avoiding me all weekend," Bill said. "That you thought I was mad at you."

Holden didn't answer.

"Well, I'm not mad at you. So there's no reason to be squirrely about it." 

Holden hung his head. "I crashed your car."

"_You_ didn't crash it," said Bill. "That guy was going too fast. And… I was the one who told you it was clear. Of the three of us, you're the least responsible. You were still learning." 

Holden just kept staring at the pavement. 

They got to the car. Bill gestured at the driver's door. "You want to try again?"

Holden looked at him like he was crazy. "No!"

"It's okay," said Bill. "It's a loaner from the insurance company."

Holden shook his head. "No, thank you, sir."

"Holden…" Bill put his elbows on the the roof of the car, looking across at the kid. "It's okay if you want to take a break. I know you're shaken up. But you can't just quit."

Holden looked anywhere but at Bill. "It was really scary."

Bill sighed. "I know. And… lots of things in life are going to be scary. Anything worth doing comes with a risk. Okay? If you ask a girl out, she might say no. When you go driving, you might get in an accident. Bad things happen. You're going to fail. But you keep trying. You don't give up. Otherwise life's gonna pass you by."

Holden stared at the pavement miserably.

"I just don't want you to regret anything," said Bill. "A lot of life is out of your control. When you get to my age and look back, it's just… it's a real bitch, okay? To regret the very few things you _did_ have control over."

Holden looked up at him. "You regret something, Bill?"

Bill scratched at the back of his neck. "Listen, we're fine. It wasn't your fault. I'm not mad. So once you've had a break, we'll go back on the road. Okay?"

Holden looked down at the pavement again.

"How does that sound?" Bill prodded.

"It sounds okay, Bill," Holden mumbled.

"Okay, great. Let's get home."


	11. Valentine's Day 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill takes Nancy out.

Valentine's Day fell on a Monday. Bill had made reservations at the Lamplighter, and even remembered to get flowers in the morning on the way to work, instead of scrambling last minute. 

When he got home, Nancy was sitting at the dining room table, going over their finances and paying the bills. He showed her the flowers. 

"Bill!" Even though she knew about the dinner plans, her face lit up. "Roses! You cad." 

Bill laughed. "Happy Valentine's Day, Nance."

She made a little _awww_ sound, letting him hug and kiss her. "Look at me. I'm not even dressed properly."

"We have time," said Bill. "And you look great, anyway."

"You're such a sweet talker," she said, fussing over the flowers. She got a vase that Bill was not even aware they owned out of the dining room sideboard, and took the flowers to the kitchen. 

Bill got a quick shower and changed into a different shirt. He thought about wearing a jacket and tie, but all the jackets and ties he owned were, at some point, worn to work, and had possibly been at a crime scene. So he settled for the nicest polo he had. He shaved, and put on cologne, then went to sit in the living room with the boys while Nancy got ready.

Brian liked Mister Roger's Neighbourhood, and it looked like Holden didn't mind it, either. They both watched in rapt attention while Bill settled in the recliner with a cigarette. Holden sat on the couch, while Brian was on the floor in front of the TV, giving it attention that Bill had never seen him give a person.

"When I was very young, I had a dog that I loved very much," said Mr. Rogers. "And she got to be old, and she died. And I was very sad when she died, because she and I were good pals." 

"This guy does not pull his punches," said Bill.

"No," said Holden, not looking away from the screen. "He's very straight-forward." He rested his chin in his hands, like he was watching some riveting drama.

"Why is he talking about this?" asked Bill. "I thought this was supposed to be a kid's show."

"His goldfish died," said Holden. "In the show. So he buried it. He's showing how to process death." 

Bill made a face. That did not seem like appropriate kid's programming to him. And Brian was watching so closely.

"My dad said we have to bury Mitzy," said Mr. Rogers. "I didn't want to bury her, because I thought I'd just pretend that she was still alive. But my dad said that her body was dead, and we have to bury it."

"Okay," Bill said, getting up. "I don't think I want Brian watching this."

"Wait," Holden said, not looking away from the screen. 

Brian had been fidgeting with his little stuffed rabbit, and now he hugged it close to his chest.

Bill sighed, and crossed his arms. 

On the TV, Mr. Rogers got out a stuffed dog and showed how he played with it as a child, and pretended that it was dead, over and over again.

Bill stiffened. On the floor, Brian looked down at his stuffed rabbit, then back up at the screen.

"Even now I still remember Mitzy's prickly fur," said Mr. Rogers. "And her curly tail." 

Bill swallowed against a lump in his throat. Brian hugged his rabbit tight, staring at the screen. Holden still held his chin in his hands, and his eyes were big and soft. 

"Okay!" Nancy came into the room, beaming. "I'm ready!"

Bill turned off the TV.

Nancy wore a floral wrap dress and had put a ribbon in her hair. She was even wearing high heels. Bill gave her a wolf whistle. 

"Stop it," she chided him, smiling. "Okay, Holden, there's chicken fingers, peas, and fries in the freezer. I wrote out some instructions for you and put them on the counter. It should only take about twenty minutes."

"Yes, ma'am." Holden picked Brian up and carried him on his hip. Brian looked away from his parents, still clutching that stuffed rabbit.

"I made some Jell-O pops earlier, too. You can each have one after dinner."

"Thank you," said Holden. 

"We're going to be at the Lamplighter all night. The number's on the fridge. If _anything_ goes wrong, call us." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Nothing's going to go wrong," said Bill.

"Just in case," said Nancy. "Please, Holden, don't hesitate. You will _not_ be bothering us. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And the Randalls' number is up there, too. They're staying in tonight, so if you can't reach us, call them and they'll come right over. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." Holden looked as serious as ever, except for bouncing Brian on his hip.

Nancy melted. "Okay. Have a fun, you two. Bye-bye, Bri-bear." She leaned over and kissed both boys on the cheek. They both shied away. 

Bill didn't know what to say, so he just nodded at Holden, and then led Nancy out with a hand on the small of her back. 

\--

Nancy kept fussing with her hair in the car. It was still the insurance company's loaner. "I hope it's okay to leave them," she said. "I hope Brian isn't scared at bedtime." 

"It'll be fine," said Bill. "Holden's been looking after him for longer than we have."

Nancy hummed, and got lipstick out of her purse. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She did that thing after women put on lipstick where she smacked her lips together, like she had _no idea_ what that did to Bill. 

He shifted in his seat.

"I don't think I can even remember the last time we were in a car together, just the two of us," she said.

"I would guess it was about two months ago," Bill quipped.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, but I meant when was the last time we went for a drive together without the stress of the _adoption_ hanging over our head?" 

Bill grabbed her hand, gave it a soft squeeze. "A long fucking time," he said.

"But we made it," she said.

"We sure did." 

\--

They had a jazz band at the Lamplighter-- aging _hepcats_, Bill thought. Tonight the band were all dressed in white coats, with flowers in their lapels, and the singer crooned love ballads. 

Nancy beamed as Bill took her coat and held out her chair. It had been, as Bill said, a long fucking time since they'd just been in love together, and nothing else.

"Wine and roses and music," Nancy gushed, after the waiter poured her a glass. "A girl could get used to this." 

Bill smiled wrily. 

Nancy took his hand. "So, Bill Tench," she said. "Tell me a story."

Bill cleared his throat, and looked over at the band. He had never been a big talker on dates. "Well," he said. "What do you want to hear?" 

"I don't know. Tell me about work," she said.

"Since when do you want to hear about my work?" He smirked. 

"I've always been interested in your work," she said. "The idea of it, at least. But since you started this unit, it's just… so _sad_ all the time."

Bill sipped at his whiskey. "Yeah, it's sad," he said. "There's honestly not much to report besides that. You used to come home with some pretty sad stories yourself."

Nancy had been a pediatric nurse, and always worked in a hospital setting. While there were a lot of happy stories in the maternity ward, there weren't really any other happy reasons for a child to be at the hospital. 

"How's Dr. Carr?" Nancy asked, in a tone that Bill was not sure how to parse.

The waiter brought their steaks, giving Bill a moment to think. "She's fine," he said carefully. "She's with our team full-time now."

"Oh? Since when?"

Bill shrugged. "The new year. She and Gregg are doing interviews on their own now. Well, one so far. It's slow going."

"_She’s_ doing them?" Nancy blinked, and then moved right along, not giving him a chance to respond. "Well, I hope Gregg's doing well. He was real nice." 

Bill nodded. "Yep, Gregg's just fine." 

"I should give his wife a call," said Nancy. "Maybe set up a playdate for Brian."

"Lately I've been working a lot with a guy named Jim Barney," said Bill. "From the field office in Atlanta."

"Oh?" 

"He's a great agent." Bill cut into his steak. They made it perfect here, still a little bloody in the middle. "And I think he'd be an asset at interviews. We're trying to get him to join us full-time, but it depends on the budget. We've been given a bunch of interns and junior agents. What we need is someone at his level." 

Nancy looked thoughtful, eating her own steak delicately. "So if you get this guy full-time," she mused. "And Dr. Carr is there full-time. And you've got all these new people. Do you think you can move on then?"

He looked up from his plate. "Huh?"

Nancy avoided his gaze, fussing with her own food. "I know you built that all from scratch, but it seems like once you've got a good framework in place, you can… move on from that. Maybe go manage a different unit."

"A different unit," Bill said.

"I mean, I don't know how things work there," said Nancy. "But maybe back in organized crime. Some kind of analysis? Something that keeps you at home, behind a desk?" 

Bill sighed. "I'm home now, Nance. And I haven't gone on an interview in months."

Nancy brightened. "So you're not doing interviews anymore?" 

"I… I haven't, because… we decided I'd only do ones in driving distance."

Her face fell. "So you still want to do them."

"I don't _want_ to," he said. "It just… has to be done." 

"If Dr. Carr, and Gregg, and this Barney guy can do interviews, I don't see why you have to do them at all."

Bill sighed.

"Aren't you the boss?" said Nancy. "Can't you just… manage the interviewers?" 

"I'm the special agent in charge…" Bill said slowly. "I'm not necessarily the _boss_…"

"Agent in charge sounds like the boss to me," said Nancy. "I don't know why you're so hesitant to act like it."

Bill grit his teeth. "I can try to get off interviews," he said. "For the time being, at least. I know I promised you I wouldn't stay overnight anywhere for a year, and I won't. So you don't have to worry."

"When I asked for that, I didn't realize you'd still be going out of town to visit crime scenes." 

Bill sipped his whiskey slowly. "That's… half the job, Nance."

Nance put down her cutlery and wiped her hands on her napkin. "I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't want our Valentine's Day to be like this."

Bill frowned.

Nancy took a long drink from her wine. "I think what it is," she said, "is that I miss work. I didn't think I would. I thought I'd feel more useful with a child, but… I feel _less_ useful. Like I'm just… idling away the hours."

Bill furrowed his brow. "You're useful. Brian needs his mom."

"I know," she sighed. "But it just doesn't feel like I've _done_ something at the end of the day, the way it did at work. I keep thinking about things at the hospital and wondering if anyone's taking care of it."

Bill reached out and took her hand. 

She looked down at their clasped hands fondly. "Which… now that I've said it… I bet you'd feel the same way if you ever left that unit."

Bill almost did a double take. He had a hard time understanding Nancy more often than not, but she could take one look at him and expose him, just like that.

"If you wanted to go back to work, after Brian's in school," said Bill. "Maybe part-time. We could do that."

"You wouldn't mind?" 

"It's the seventies," said Bill. "I'm not a caveman."

Nancy laughed. "Well, I can't imagine how anyone could work _and_ raise kids," she said, leaning back and picking up her wine again. "Brian already runs me ragged, even when he hardly talks. It's barely been two months, and I'm exhausted. And _Holden_. He's a good boy. But the _sulking_."

"The freaking sulking!" Bill agreed. "Like everyone's out to get him, all the time." 

Nancy shook her head. "He's a sweetheart, though." 

"I have to admit," said Bill. "Adjusting to Brian is going a lot easier with Holden's help." 

Nancy smiled over her wine glass. "And he adores _you_. Gosh. I think you must be the best thing that ever happened to him." 

Bill scowled, which made Nancy laugh. She had to wipe her face with her napkin, like wine had gone up her nose. 

"Come dance with me," she said.

They danced a few slow waltzes. They tried a foxtrot, but none of the other couples were foxtrotting. There was no room. They ended up just swaying together like clueless teenagers.

He gave his wife a kiss. "Happy Valentine's Day, Nancy," he said. "Thanks for staying married to me."

She smiled up at him. Sometimes he forgot what it was like for her to smile at him like that. When she did, he was nineteen years old and awestruck again. 

"Aw," she said. Her cheeks were flushed, as she was a little tipsy. "You're a good man, Bill Tench. You try your hardest." 

He wasn't entirely sure how to take that. "I do." 

"I think this is the first time you've remembered Valentine's Day, unprompted, in years," she said. "And you had plans ready and everything."

"Well… Holden reminded me," Bill admitted.

"He's a sweetheart. What a shame he's so sad all the time." 

After a few more dances, they went to their table for dessert, which was a kind of fancy Italian ice cream. 

Bill asked Nancy if she remembered the Dairy Queen they had in Cleveland when they were kids. That turned into stories about other kids they had known, and the burger place where Nancy carhopped at, and the little carhop outfits she wore, and Bill's first car, and the things they got up to in there. 

Nancy laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. "God, I just realized I haven't thought about the boys in a while. Is it bad that I sort of don't miss them?" 

Bill almost spat up his ice cream laughing. "No, I don't think so," he said.

"Well…" She sighed. "I do feel bad now. I shouldn't have said that."

"Nance," Bill wiped his mouth, and grinned at her. "You don't have to spend all your brainpower on them. You deserve one night for just you." 

He reached out and took her hand. Kissed her knuckles.

She grinned at him. "What are you up to?"

He turned her hand, and kissed her palm.

"Bill!" She giggled. 

"Owen!" A man shouted across the dining room.

Bill and Nancy turned at once, both frowning, both hearts skipping a beat.

"Owen, get back here!" The man shouted.

A little boy, about eight years old, darted between tables. His father, a harried, angry-looking guy in his thirties, caught up to him. Grabbed him by the wrist. Hard.

"Don't run off like that," the man hissed, towering over his son.

"Owwwww," the boy whined. His dad dragged him off, squeezing his little arm tightly.

Bill didn't realize he'd clenched his fists and half risen from his seat, until he felt Nancy's hand on his arm. She smiled softly at him. 

The angry dad got back to his booth on the other end of the dining room. He held Owen in place with a tight grip on his arm, and leaned down, muttering something into the kid's terrified little face. A woman sat at the booth, looking about a million miles away. 

"Now, why would you bring a kid here?" Bill asked.

Nancy rubbed her face. It seemed like she was making an effort to look away from the domestic drama. "Probably couldn't get a sitter." 

Bill shook his head. He was suddenly in a very, very bad mood. 

They didn't talk for a while. When he looked over at Nancy again, she was watching the other family, her head resting on one hand. 

"You all right?" he asked.

Nancy sighed. "Some people just don't know what they have," she said. She straightened up, shook her curly hair. "I think I want to call it a night, Bill." 

Bill looked at his watch. He'd planned on them staying out a lot later. "All right," he said.

\--

"I had a really good time," Nancy said, half-heartedly, after they'd been driving about ten minutes in silence. "I think I just… I'm not used to so much wine anymore." 

"It's okay," said Bill. "I had a good time, too."

With a sigh, she rested her head against the window.

Sighs were contagious. Bill cracked his window open and lit a cigarette.

"I didn't mean it," Nancy said after a long while. "About not missing them."

"I know," said Bill.

"I miss them a lot," she said. "I shouldn't have said it." She shook her head. Covered her eyes with one hand.

"It's okay, Nance," said Bill. She didn't have to convince him. He knew what she meant. And he knew that it wasn't really Holden and Brian she was missing. 

Their night would've been almost perfect if that kid hadn't been named Owen. 

\--

When they got through the front door, the first thing they saw was Holden on the couch, in front of the TV, with a strange girl. They were sitting very far apart from each other, looking startled. 

Everyone was silent for a moment. 

“We didn’t give you permission to have a girl over,” said Bill. 

“We were just studying,” said Holden. 

There were certainly books open on the coffee table, but there were also couch pillows on the floor for some reason. “We didn’t give you _permission_,” Bill repeated. 

“Bill, it’s not that big a deal,” sighed Nancy. "Holden, who is this? Is this Debbie?"

"No," said Holden. "This is Cheryl."

"Cheryl Tuckman," said the girl, standing hesitantly. She was skinny and mousy and her clothes were too big. "Um, Mrs. Tench, you know my mother, Stephanie Tuckman. She's a nurse at the hospital."

"Oh," Nancy said, in a tone that indicated she did know this Stephanie Tuckman, and did not care for her. "Well, we didn’t see a car out front. How’d you get here?”

“I walked, ma’am,” said Cheryl.

“She only lives ten minutes away,” said Holden. He stood hesitantly, too, like it had taken him that long to figure out he should've stood when Cheryl did.

“You shut up,” said Bill. “Listen. You’re going to walk this girl home, and if you’re not back in 25 minutes, my foot will be up your ass. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Holden mumbled, glaring darkly at the floor. 

“And I expect you to be a perfect gentleman about it,” Bill added, while Cheryl hastily packed her books away. 

“I’m always a gentleman,” Holden muttered. 

"Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Tench," Cheryl said, after they'd put on their coats and boots. "Sorry."

After they left, Nancy gave Bill a flat look. 

“What?”

“You don’t have to be so hard on him, you know. It’s normal for him to have girls over when he can.” 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” said Bill. 

“He has no idea what's expected of him," said Nancy. "We need to get better at communicating. I feel like I keep saying this, and nothing keeps happening." 

Bill took her coat and put it away in the closet, gritting his teeth. 

"And I'd have thought you’d be happy that a girl wants to spend time with him at all,” Nancy went on. "But the house hasn’t burned down, and that’s all I wanted out of this endeavour. Wait up for him, will you? I'm going to check on Brian and… take a bath." She kissed him on the cheek. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Bill hung up his own coat. He got a beer from the kitchen which, to Holden's credit, was spotless. He settled onto the couch and switched over to the news.

He looked at Holden's textbook on the coffee table. American Goverment 9. Maybe they really were doing homework, since there weren't any books about murder out.

He put the throw cushions back on the couch. _But you don't need to move all these cushions just to study_, he thought. _How could he even kiss with those braces on, the way he complains about them?_

Half an hour later, Bill decided to give the kid ten more minutes.

Ten more minutes passed. With an angry sigh, Bill put his coat and shoes on.

He threw open the front door. Holden, sitting on the front steps, turned to him with a start.

"What the fuck," said Bill. "What are you doing?"

"I-- you--" Holden gaped up at him.

"I told you 25 minutes, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," Holden stood, arms rigid at his sides.

"So why are you just sitting out here in the cold?" 

"I thought-- I didn't--" Holden stammered. "I thought you'd go to bed."

"What the shit, Holden. I was waiting for you."

"I'm sorry, sir," Holden breathed, his brows knit. 

Bill sighed. He didn't want Holden to have one of his little tantrums. They were getting old. "Well, come inside."

Holden trudged in quietly. 

As they were putting their coats away, for hopefully the last time that night, Nancy came into the living room wearing her dressing gown. "Oh, good, he's back," she said. "Come on, let's sit down. Bill."

"Huh?" Bill was on his way to the bedroom.

"We all need to talk. Sit down."

Holden stood stiffly. Nancy took him by the wrist and led him to the couch, sitting close next to him. 

Bill plopped back on the recliner with a sigh. He turned the volume on the TV down, and started flipping through channels. 

"I'm sorry, Nancy," Holden said.

"I know, sweetie."

"I thought you were coming home later," he said.

"Jesus, Holden," Bill scoffed.

"Bill," said Nancy.

Holden hung his head, cringing. 

"Holden," said Nancy. "Do you understand why thinking we were coming home later doesn't excuse anything?"

"Yes," said Holden. "That was dumb. Sorry."

"You know, you could've just asked permission to have a friend over." 

Holden looked at Nancy skeptically. "Would you have said yes?"

"If I had met her before," she said. "But Holden, I don't like the idea of some stranger being around Brian when I'm not there. Can you understand that?"

Holden's face softened. He stared at the carpet. "I didn't think of that," he said very, very softly. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again." 

"Well, you can ask if you want to have a friend over," Nancy said. "That's all. You can ask for anything, Holden."

Holden looked up at her, brow furrowed.

"Just ask," she said. "We might not say yes. But you don't have to float around guessing at what's allowed and what's not. Just ask, and we'll say yes or no. Right, Bill?"

Bill looked over from the boxing match he had found. "Sure," he said.

"And you have your allowance now," said Nancy. "You can spend it however you like. If you want anything else, you just ask. Okay?"

Holden nodded, looking back down at the carpet. "I'm sorry I ruined Valentine's Day," he mumbled.

"Oh, sweetie. You didn't ruin it." Nancy tousled his hair. "Go to bed soon, okay? Goodnight." She kissed Holden on the forehead. 

Holden's shoulders went up, and he pressed himself into the couch.

Nancy kissed Bill, and went off to bed.

Holden and Bill sat in silence for a while. At this point, Bill had all but forgotten the drama and was getting pretty invested in the boxing match.

"I can really ask for anything?" Holden finally spoke up.

"What? Oh. Yeah, sure."

Another long pause.

"Can I see the files you brought home from your cases?" 

Bill turned to him in shock. "What? Jesus! No."

Holden opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was trying to find a way to argue with that.

"You asked, and I said no." Bill gave him a hard look. "That's how this system is going to work." 

Holden pouted. "Okay, Bill." 

"Go to bed," said Bill. 

Holden was so quiet, Bill didn't think he even moved. But when he turned back to the couch to tell Holden to go to bed again, Holden had taken his textbook, and left.


	12. Volleyball Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden sustains a minor injury, and deals with it in Holdenesque fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the plot is moving very slowly, but I also heard you liked Holden whump, so here you go.

The rest of February passed in a blur. Work continued as it always does-- cases to consult on, and requests for road school, and budget meetings, and so many depositions. Between work and Brian and Nancy and Holden, Bill felt he barely got a moment to himself. That's why he'd take so many smoke breaks. And if he stopped for a drink by himself after work, what was the harm?

On the first Thursday of March, however, Bill went straight home, and was early for dinner. He sat with Brian in the living room, drawing pictures with crayons at the coffee table, while Nancy put the finishing touches on dinner. 

"I had a long phone call with the specialist today," said Nancy. 

"Specialist?" 

"For Brian," she said. "Remember, Mr. Porter recommended it?"

"Oh," said Bill. He didn't remember, but it sounded like something that would have happened. 

"We have a consultation at the end of the month," said Nancy. 

"Okay," said Bill. "A consultation for what, exactly?"

"For speech therapy. And to see if there's anything else Brian needs help with." 

"Speech therapy?" Bill looked up. "I thought we agreed we were going to give him a bit to settle in, first. He just needs to get comfortable, right, Bri-bear?"

Brian kept on colouring, ignoring his parents completely. 

Nancy came to stand behind the couch, looking down at Bill, with her hands on her hips. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Whatever she wanted to say, she decided against it. Instead, she went back to the kitchen, and called out, "Holden, come and help.”

"He's not at the library?" Bill came into the kitchen and got himself a beer. 

"No, he came right home," said Nancy, taking the roast beef out of the oven to rest. "Just went straight to his room. Didn't even say hello. Holden, come set the table!" she called again. 

A muffled reply from down the hall. 

"I'll do it," said Bill. He started getting plates down. 

Nancy sighed and shook her head. "I can't wait to get into bed tonight." 

"How did it go at, the, uh... the church thing?" Bill asked, tentatively. 

"The Lutheran Women's League," Nancy said tersely. "It was fine."

"It doesn't seem like it." 

"It's nothing. Carol Collins was just her usual bitchy self," Nancy spat. 

Bill chuckled. "I'm sorry you had a bad day, but I always like it when you call other women bitches." 

"Shut up," she smirked at him. She went to the living room to get Brian ready.

"Holden, come to dinner," Bill shouted as he brought the plates over to the table. There was no reply. 

The telephone rang. Bill picked it up. "Tench residence.” 

"Um... hello. Does Holden live there?" a young female voice asked. 

"Yes…”

"Oh, good," said the girl. "I got your number out of the phone book. May I speak to him, please?"

"We're just about to sit down to dinner," said Bill. "Can I take a message?"

"This is Debbie," she said. "I was just making sure he was okay. Is he feeling better?"

"Better than what?" asked Bill. 

"Oh. He didn't tell you." Debbie sounded both unimpressed and unsurprised. "Holden never says when something's wrong."

Bill frowned. "What happened?" 

"He got hit in the face with a volleyball in gym class today," said Debbie. "It looked like it hurt pretty bad. I just wanted to make sure he was okay."

"How about I get him to call you back," said Bill. He scrawled her number on the pad next to the phone. 

Nancy was trying to settle Brian down into his booster seat. "What was that about?"

"Holden took a volleyball in the face today," said Bill. "He must be embarrassed."

Nancy frowned. "Well, if it hit his braces it could have knocked some of his brackets off. Go get him, please?" 

Bill knocked on Holden's door. "Come on, kid," he said. "Your little friend Debbie called, so there's no use hiding anymore."

He could hear Holden shuffling around in there. "Debbie called?" A very mumbly, lisping, muffled voice asked. 

"Yeah," said Bill. "Come on out. I'll get you some ice if it's that bad." 

"I'm not hungry," Holden mumbled in response. 

"I don't care," said Bill. "Nancy slaved over the stove all day. You're coming out to eat if I have to drag you out myself." 

After a brief pause, the door opened a crack. "I'm really not hungry," Holden mumbled. 

"Jesus Christ!" Bill spat.

A fresh bruise reddened angrily over the right side of Holden’s mouth. 

But what startled Bill was all the _blood_. Holden had packed what looked like paper towel into his mouth, but that wasn’t stopping the flow. The paper towel pad was red, and splatters of blood dotted his shirt.

"It's okay," Holden tried to say. 

"Like shit." Bill shouldered the door open and grabbed Holden's arm.

"Bill, nooooo," Holden whined as Bill dragged him to the kitchen. 

"Nancy," Bill called. "He's bleeding."

"What??" Nancy rushed over from the dining room. "Oh, Holden! Come sit on the couch. Let me look."

“I’m okayyyy," Holden slurred. 

Nancy turned her reading lamp so it was blasting Holden right in the face. "Bill, could you bring Brian over, please? Put him there by his toys." She was already trying to look in Holden's mouth. "Then get my first aid kit.” 

"Please, please," Holden whined. “I’m okay, just leave it alone."

Bill got Brian down from his booster chair and put him over in his play area, where it would be easier to keep an eye on him. Then he grabbed Nancy's first aid kit from the master bathroom. 

"When did this happen?" Nancy asked, aghast. "How long have you been bleeding?"

"It was last period," Holden managed to say. "Then I came home."

"So at least three hours. Jesus Christ, Holden." Nancy scowled as she put on gloves from her first aid kit. 

"Did he knock a tooth loose or something?" Bill asked, leaning over the back of the couch. 

Holden whined and tried to evade Nancy's touch on his mouth, but she had a lot of experience treating stubborn kids.

"No, his teeth are fine," she said, when she had finally gotten the blood-soaked paper towel pad out of Holden's mouth. She handed it to Bill matter-of-factly. 

Grimacing, he ran to the kitchen to throw it away.

"He's knocked some brackets loose," said Nancy. "Where did they go, Holden? You didn't swallow them, did you?"

"I threw them out," Holden slurred. He sounded furious. His chest was starting to heave. His fingers gripped the couch cushions tight. 

"The brackets cut his cheek open,” said Nancy. "And the wire's sticking in there. He needs stitches."

"No!" Holden cried. 

"How the hell did they cut him?" asked Bill. "Just from a volleyball?"

"I don't know, Bill,” said Nancy. "I imagine child services got him the cheapest ones." She put a clear fluid onto some cotton balls, and shoved them up into Holden's cheek to clean the cut. 

He winced and whined and tried to pull away. 

"Why are they so sharp to begin with?" Bill asked. 

"I don't _know_, Bill," she said. "Holden, I'm going to take you to the hospital."

"No, please!" Holden all but shouted. He tried to scramble backwards off the couch, but Nancy kept him still with a firm grip on his shoulder. "Please, please don't make me get stitches!" 

"Holden," Nancy said in her nurse's tone, very calm and steady. "The bleeding isn’t stopping."

"I don't care!" Holden cried. 

"I know you don't like people touching your mouth," said Nancy. "But Dr. Cox is very good. I've known him for years. You won't feel a thing."

"I don't _want stitches_!" To Bill's surprise, Holden didn't press himself against the back of the couch and gasp like one of his usual tantrums. He _was_ trying to somehow escape through the couch, but he was full-on sobbing, which was not part of the tantrums. 

Big, terrified tears. A child’s tears. 

“Please, Mrs. Tench, please!" Holden begged. 

"Oh, sweetheart." Nancy looked pained. She looked between Holden and her first aid kit. "Bill, can you get me a glass of water, please?" she asked, not looking up to meet his eyes. 

"Uh, sure," said Bill, and he did what he was told. 

"Thanks." She put the glass on the coffee table, still not meeting Bill's gaze. Holden had pulled himself into a ball on the couch and was sobbing hard, clutching Nancy's other hand. "Could you get his knapsack from his room? I know he won't want to leave without it."

_Yeah, and if he goes back in his room we'll never get him out again,_ thought Bill. He went to Holden's room and found his knapsack by the desk. He peeked inside quickly to ensure the plastic bag with Holden's birth certificate and Matchbox cars were there, and then zipped it up. 

A textbook called Grade Nine Basic Science was open on the desk. Bill wondered, briefly, when they started calling it Basic Science instead of just Science. 

Droplets of blood stained the textbook pages. Other pads of red, wet paper towel sat in the wastebasket, on the desk, and on the floor. Holden really had been bleeding freely for hours in here, apparently content to push on and just ignore it. 

In the living room, Nancy had coaxed Holden into sitting up, and he sipped at the glass of water. Nancy prepared a small piece of gauze from her first aid kit. 

"Okay," she said. "Put this in. Bill, get him some ice."

Bill made a little ice pack with a plastic bag and a tea towel while Nancy got Holden into his shoes and coat. 

"I don't know how long we'll be," she said. 

"Of course." Bill shrugged. "I can take care of Brian, no problem. I'll save you both some dinner."

Nancy kissed him on the cheek, then bundled Holden out the door. Holden, still hiccuping, but not sobbing so loudly anymore, left without a backward glance or word to Bill.

\--

Bill called Debbie back, and thanked her for tipping them off. He had been ready to leave Holden sulking in his bedroom during dinner. The kid often spent grumpy days by himself. There was no way for Bill to have guessed he was halfway bleeding out in there. 

It was always awkward for Bill to spend time alone with Brian. When he had gotten home that evening, he'd been happy to sit with Bri at the coffee table and draw with him, but that was partly because Nancy was nearby in the kitchen. It was almost like he was performing for her. Without Nancy around, he honestly wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with this kid. 

He loved Brian. But he didn't really know him, did he? He didn't know why Brian was so quiet, and wouldn't look at anyone in the face. He didn't know where he was those first two years, before the Mullens house in Lynchburg. And it's not like Brian was about to _tell_ him, was it?

He settled Brian down into his booster seat and got him his food, then sat next to him with his own plate. Brian fed himself without being asked-- like he didn't even care about Bill's attention enough to make him work for it, the way he did with Nancy. 

"So," said Bill. "You went to church with Mommy today. Did you like the play group?"

Nothing. 

"Did you like the other kids?"

Nothing. 

Bill sighed. He turned on the TV in the living room. A hockey game filled the silence pretty nicely. 

\--

Nancy and Holden were home sooner than Bill expected, in about two hours. He had just finished putting Brian to bed. He'd put real effort into reading Brian's bedtime stories, and was rewarded with a rare sighting of Brian pointing at a picture of a cat in the book and saying "Cat." Bill felt immensely dumb that this was enough to make his throat clench up with some kind of feeling. 

Bill was watching the nightly news when they came in through the utility room. He went to meet them in the hall.

"Hey," Nancy said quietly, poking her curly head out of the utility room doorway. "How did Brian go down?"

"He's out like a light," whispered Bill. "How's Holden?"

It took a while for Nancy to get Holden out of the utility room. Apparently getting his jacket and shoes off was a chore. When Nancy led Holden out into the hall by the arm, Bill could see why. 

Kid was stoned out of his head. 

"Hiiii Billl," he slurred. 

"Hi Holden,” said Bill, a surprised smile coming over his face. "How are you?”

"I dunno." Holden stumbled a bit. 

"He just needed two stitches," said Nancy. "They gave him a topical and he didn't feel a thing."

"Will he have to go back?" 

"They'll dissolve in a few days," said Nancy. She helped Holden walk down the hall very, very slowly. "And he was supposed to get his braces adjusted next week anyway, so he'll get new brackets then. I'll call the orthodontist tomorrow. I want to make sure the cut's all the way healed before the brackets go back on. It might lengthen his treatment, but..."

"Yeah." Bill still held out hope that Holden might get over this fear of strangers touching his mouth during his whole braces ordeal, but he was beginning to think it might not happen. Maybe avoiding as many appointments as possible was better for everyone, if it was always going to be like this. 

"M'hungry," Holden slurred. 

"I know." Nancy helped Holden into the dining room. 

Holden dropped his knapsack carelessly on the floor and slumped into his chair, staring unsteadily into nowhere. 

“Could you sit with him?” asked Nancy. "I'm going to make him some soup."

"Your dinner's in the fridge," said Bill. 

"Oh, good. Thank you."

Bill sat at the head of the table, around the corner from Holden, who smiled at him shakily. "Why is he so stoned?" asked Bill. 

"They gave him something to calm him down," Nancy said from the kitchen. 

"This seems like a lot more than calm," said Bill. "This is like… after an operation." 

Holden _giggled_, making Bill lean back in surprise. 

"Well," Nancy said, dumping a can of tomato soup into a saucepan on the stove. "Maybe they gave him a little too much."

"Too much?" Bill frowned. "How much did they give him?"

"It's different for everyone, Bill," Nancy said. "And he's never had it before. He's not used to it." She wasn't looking at him, putting her own dinner in the microwave. 

Something didn't seem right to Bill, but he was distracted by Holden staring unsteadily at him. 

"Hi," Holden said, then giggled again, like it was a joke. 

"Hey," said Bill. He couldn't help but smile back. He'd never seen Holden so light and happy before. "You sure you're doing okay, kid?"

"Uh huh," said Holden. 

"You weren't scared?"

"I was scared," said Holden. "But it was... far away." He wobbled a little in his seat. "I saw a dog."

"Did you?"

"Uh huh." Holden blinked slowly. "On the way home. He was with his owner. He had a fluffy butt."

"What kind of dog was it?" asked Bill. 

"Oh, I don't know." Holden made a dismissive hand gesture, like that was a silly thing for someone to know. 

Nancy brought Holden's soup, and helped him grip his spoon shakily. Holden hummed loudly in appreciation. 

"Try to just eat on your left side, okay, Holden?" she said. 

"Okay," he said, then spilled a spoonful of soup over the lip of the bowl. "Oops."

Nancy brought over some tea towels and gave them to Bill. "Can you make sure he eats at least a little? His lip is still frozen but it should be okay.”

Bill sighed, cleaning the soup splatters. Holden slurped from his spoon now, and most of it was going in, at least. "Should he even be eating with stitches in his mouth?"

"It's fine." Nancy brought her own plate of roast beef, asparagus and potatoes over. "There's a mouthwash for after." 

"Didn't the orthodontist give him instructions about gym class?" asked Bill.

"There's a mouthguard he can get," said Nancy. "I think the orthodontist asked him if he played any sports--"

"I don't play any sports," Holden slurred.

"--and Holden said no. But he meant team sports.”

"The orthodontist should've assumed he'd play ball in gym class," said Bill. "He's sixteen, they all have gym class."

Nancy shrugged. "I'll make sure he gets a mouthguard next time we go." 

Bill frowned. "Why is everybody so incompetent?"

Holden giggled again. "Bill's grumpy!"

"Yes, he is," agreed Nancy. She gave Bill a cheeky smile. "But we love him." 

Bill sighed. 

"Mmm," Holden moaned into his soup. "This is real good soup. Thank you, Nancy." 

"You're welcome, Holden," said Nancy. 

"You guys are so nice to me."

Bill blinked. 

"Well," said Nancy. "We like you."

"No," Holden chided. "You didn't want me. But you're still nice to me. That's how you can tell you're good people." He slurped more soup. "Mama gave me this kind of soup. She made grilled cheese sandwiches, too."

Nancy and Bill shared a small smile. 

"She was so pretty," Holden mused, sloshing more soup around in his bowl. "Everyone said she was sooooo pretty."

"I can tell," said Nancy. "You're so handsome, it must have come from her." 

"Noooooo!" Holden laughed, lowering his head bashfully. He turned bright red. "Nancy, you're silly."

Bill chuckled. Nancy looked delighted. 

"I like feeling like this," Holden announced, blinking one eye at a time. 

"Well," said Bill. "That's nice."

"Is this what being drunk feels like?" Holden asked. 

"Looks like it." 

"Is that why you get drunk so much?"

Bill frowned. "I don't get drunk."

Holden eyed him warily. "You always have beer." 

Bill looked at Nancy, wounded. Nancy just shook her head and squeezed his hand. "Beer doesn't get you that drunk, Holden," she said, when she was done chewing her mouthful. "Bill only drinks a little beer in the evenings." 

"Then can I have a beer?" asked Holden. 

"No!" Nancy and Bill both said at once. They started laughing.

"Oh, god, Holden," Bill said, rubbing his face. 

Holden smiled as he watched them laugh together. His eyes were very bright and far away. He seemed to have abandoned his soup, having only eaten half of it. "Mama used to drink from… um, she'd drink from big bottles, and it was clear. And she used needles."

Nancy stopped short. She gently laid down her cutlery. 

Bill wasn't so shocked. "That's pretty serious stuff, Holden."

"I _know_," Holden scoffed. "I'm not _stupid_. But it's not like people say about her. She didn't do it that often. She would just get sad sometimes. And then she'd use the needles and go to sleep. On-- when-- when they landed on the moon, she was sad that day. But even though she was sad, she stayed awake the whole day with me. We made, um..." He made a vague gesture with his hands. "Space helmets out of paper. Paper something."

"Papier mache?" Nancy guessed. 

"Yeah!" Holden grinned. "We made space helmets and she stayed up all day and watched the moon landing with me. I really liked that day. She didn't take any needles even though she was sad. She didn't take needles for a really long time after that. Most days she was happy. We would dance and sing together."

"Really?" Bill, for whatever reason, had a hard time imagining Holden dancing at any age. 

"Uh hum," Holden said. A tiny trickle of bloody drool ran down his chin. He didn't seem to notice as Bill wiped it off for him. "She had a song she would sing about me. _Here he comes with his fancy walk, he's just a..._" Holden trailed off, looking quizzically at the table. He turned to Bill. "She used to call me a smart alec."

That startled a laugh out of Bill. "Did she?"

"Yeah, but in a nice way. It was her name for me. I miss her." 

"I know, Holden," said Nancy. "I'm sorry."

Holden was quiet for a while, wobbling on his seat. He looked down and seemed to notice his soup for the first time. He clumsily slurped a few more spoonfuls. "You guys are so nice to me. I like you a lot. I wish I could have come to live here instead of the other families." 

Nancy surreptitiously covered her eyes, cradling her forehead like she had a headache, and picked at her food. 

"Maaaaama," Brian called out from down the hall. It sounded like he had toddled over to his door, left open a crack, and was working up to a full-on sob. 

Nancy hastily swallowed her last mouthful. "Here." She pulled a small bottle out of her purse and gave it to Bill. "Make sure he rinses before bed. But he can't swallow. There's bleach in it."

"Okay," said Bill, squinting at the bottle since his reading glasses were in his briefcase.

"Make sure he sleeps on his stomach. For the bleeding." 

Holden watched Nancy rush off from the table. He slurped one last spoonful of soup, then looked up at Bill. 

He was a sight, his usually neat little shirt crumpled and splattered with blood. His usually neat hair was mussed, and the place setting in front of him messy with soup.

He blinked his eyes one at a time at Bill. "Life is pretty hard, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, it can be," said Bill.

Holden nodded sagely. "But it could be worse."

"That's true," said Bill. 

Holden closed his eyes and wobbled. "I'm sleepy," he said. 

"Okay," said Bill. "Let's get you to bed."

"My bag," Holden said. 

"I got it." 

Bill watched Holden carefully rinse out his mouth with the bleach solution in the bathroom. 

Holden winced after he spat the solution out. "That's gross, Bill." He clumsily cupped water in his hands, lapped at it with his tongue. 

"I know," said Bill. 

"It hurt," Holden grumbled. 

"Well, it's better than an infection." Bill helped Holden stumble into his bedroom. "Let's get this shirt off, it's bloody." 

Holden whined as Bill unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled out of it on his way to the bed. In his undershirt, he collapsed onto his front, his head turned to the left so his right cheek was on the pillow. 

"Hey." Bill gently helped Holden turn his head. "Maybe sleep on the left so you don't hurt the stitches."

Holden mumbled sleepily.

Bill almost reached for Holden's slacks, but decided against it. Bill hated sleeping in street clothes, but he figured Holden would either wake up and be physically uncomfortable from sleeping in his slacks, or wake up and freak out that someone had taken his pants off. 

Bill picked up some of the bloody tissues and paper towels from the desk and floor, and put them in the waste basket. The drops of blood were dry on the carpet now, but even after almost two decades of childlessness, Bill and Nancy had adapted to having a four-year-old in the house pretty quickly. Sometimes bodily fluids got in the carpet. 

He turned back to Holden as he was about to switch off the light. Holden's thumb was lodged in his mouth. 

"Come on, kiddo," he whispered. "That's no good." He reached down and gently tugged Holden's thumb out of his mouth. 

"Noooo," Holden whined, but his voice was high and happy, and he smiled. He snagged Bill's hand weakly. Bill tried not to wince at the wet thumb. "Noooo, you're back!” 

Bill blinked. With a rush, he remembered that Holden called his mother's boyfriend _No_, and that was likely the drug dealer Noah Graham. _Probably the supplier of all that heroin,_ Bill thought wryly. The police believed they ran off together, abandoning Holden. 

Holden shifted on top of his sheets. He tried to open his eyes, but they would only open a sliver. "Missed you," he slurred. "When's Ma… com'n home…”

Bill gently placed Holden's arm on the bed. He tugged at the blanket to spread it over him. "I don't know, kid," he said. 

Holden breathed deeply, burrowing under the blanket Bill pulled over him. "She's not com'n..." he mumbled. 

Bill watched for a little, until he was certain Holden was asleep. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry. Sleep tight."


	13. Christopher Haddon, Richmond VA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill investigates a death in Richmond. The papers break the story. And Holden goes on a field trip!

Bill was usually the first person to leave the house, while Holden was still getting ready. One Monday in March, when it wasn't so snowy anymore (so thankfully, nobody had to shovel the driveway) Bill drove Holden to school early. His American Government class was visiting DC on a field trip. 

"What are you going to get up to there?" asked Bill.

"See the usual sights, I guess," said Holden. "It was in the sheet I brought home." 

Bill vaguely remembered signing a permission slip, along with Nancy, and maybe there had been a writeup. He figured it was indeed the _usual sights_, a circuit around the National Mall to see the monuments and the White House. What else could there be?

"Well, have fun," Bill said as he dropped Holden off in front of James Monroe High. A cluster of kids gathered in the parking lot, near a waiting yellow school bus. "Pay attention. Some of that stuff is pretty interesting."

"Okay. Thank you, sir." Holden walked off towards the other kids, thumbs tucked into the straps of his knapsack, staring down at his tennis shoes. He hadn’t actually looked at Bill all morning. 

It had been two weeks since the night Holden cut his lip, and he’d barely spoken to Bill since. All _Yes sir, no sir._ The kid had been so drowsy from whatever calming drug they’d given him that he had to miss school the next day. Bill wasn’t sure if Holden remembered what he’d said that night, about his mother— but given the way Holden avoided him, he had to assume the answer was yes. 

When Bill got into work, Gregg looked up from his desk. "We got a call from Richmond PD," he said. "Detective Allen."

"Oh, really! Freddie Allen? I thought he was retiring."

"He's always saying that. But no." Gregg looked nervous and unhappy. "He was wondering if we could meet with them today about a case. Or at least talk on the phone."

"The phone, sure," said Bill. "What's the case?" 

Gregg took a moment to respond. "I guess you haven't seen this yet." He handed Bill that day’s _Richmond Times-Dispatch._ The Academy got all the papers for analysis.

Four smiling teen boys in four school photos graced the front page. _VIRGINIA'S QUARTERBACK KILLINGS_ read the headline.

"What the hell," said Bill. "There's a fourth?" 

"Found him two weeks ago. Christopher Haddon." Gregg pointed to the last boy in the photo lineup, a dark-haired, pasty white kid. 

According to the article, Christopher Haddon had been found face-down in a field, stabbed multiple times. He'd been wearing a letter jacket from his high school. The article didn't say, but Bill would bet he had been tied up. 

"There hasn't been much media coverage about him before this," said Gregg. "There hasn't been any, in fact. But Jeremy Adams’ parents had a private investigator, and it looks like he found a connection before Richmond PD did."

"And before _we_ did, officially," said Bill. "Goddammit. I hope Shephard hasn't seen this."

The look on Gregg's face did not inspire confidence.

"Goddammit," Bill said.

He went up for a quick and tense meeting with Shephard. He had to defend the other investigations, as Shephard was suspicious that he had stuck his nose in without being invited by local cops, while also defending his ignorance about Christopher Haddon precisely _because_ he hadn't been invited by local cops. 

In the end, he got official permission to open an investigation into these dead boys. Shephard's main complaint, as usual, was that a paper talking about the murders before the FBI said anything was embarrassing. 

"You need to communicate with me more, Bill," said Shephard. "We need to maintain an image of transparency."

"Yes, sir," said Bill. "An image of transparency. Got it." 

He hastily got Calvin and Melissa, their junior agents, on a task to find out if there were any other cold cases that could be linked to their dead boys, now that he officially had permission to do so. They’d have to call all the precincts in Virginia and the DC commuter belt, everything within driving distance of the known murders. It was probably going to take them all damn day. The important, tedious, time-consuming part of police work. The gumshoe stuff. 

Wendy wasn't happy. She was more focused on the high-level, academic stuff that would hopefully, one day, make gumshoeing less tedious and time-consuming. “Gregg and I spent two days last week interviewing Victor Galliano. You were supposed to help us analyze it today. The study is already going so slowly without you, and you're taking Gregg away, too? Do you really need him there?" 

One of the things Bill liked about Wendy is that she _did not care_ about sparing anyone's feelings. Gregg was standing right there, packing his briefcase, and he clearly heard her implication that he was not necessary for the investigation in Richmond. 

But one of the things Bill liked about Gregg was that he never complained, so it was all a wash in the end.

"It's just one day," said Bill. "I agree, we need a bigger team. If you need something productive to do today, bug Shephard about the budget. Make another proposal for Jim Barney."

Wendy frowned. "I'm not your secretary, Bill."

"I know. I'm just saying, Shephard likes you," said Bill. "And right now, he kind of hates me. So you can solve all our problems in one fell swoop if you go up there and pitch Jim Barney as the solution to Bill Tench." 

She narrowed her eyes at him, and went back to her office without a word. 

\--

Driving with Gregg was kind of fun. Bill missed road school. Gregg was a perfectly inoffensive and pleasant person to be with on the road. He was boring and adequate, and there was never anything wrong with boring and adequate.

"Christopher Haddon was sixteen," Gregg briefed as Bill drove. "He had a lot of problems. Single mom, dad’s not in the picture. He did poorly in school, didn't have a job, and was known to use drugs." 

"Now, when the reports say drugs, do they just mean reefer? Or something stronger?" Bill had always wondered if there was anything stronger than marijuana involved with these boys.

"Mostly marijuana," said Gregg. "From what they can tell so far, anyway. But anecdotally, he'd take whatever he could get his hands on. Just generally an unhappy, drifting, fatherless boy." 

Bill lit a cigarette.

"It looks like his mother has a bit of a drinking problem. But she also manages to work two jobs. She was working overnight as a custodian when Christopher was killed. He wasn't even reported missing. He cut school after first period, which was not unusual, and he was found dead the next morning.” 

"That fast," said Bill. "I guess that narrows the window for our other boys. Unless our guy's not keeping them alive as long anymore."

Gregg wasn't as familiar with the case as Jim, but he was quick to fill in the blanks. "Maybe he's getting bored?” 

"What's the deal with this letter jacket?" asked Bill. "It doesn't sound like he was a star athlete." 

"According to Richmond PD, it was his older brother's jacket," said Gregg. "He seemed to be better adjusted. He was bit older when the dad left, so maybe that had something to do with it. He's in the army now, deployed in Germany. Gave Chris his jacket before he left." 

"Quarterback Killings," Bill huffed. "Fucking journalists."

"So none of the other boys were quarterbacks?" asked Gregg.

"Craig Ward didn't even play a sport," said Bill. “Sammy Raza and Jeremy Adams were both lettered, but Sammy was a running back, and Jeremy was on the swim team. They were in good shape, but quarterbacks are _big_. Those murders would have been a lot harder to pull off, even with the rope."

"So it would be novel," said Gregg. "Unusual. The media has to find compelling ways to tell a story. The letter jacket is an easy way for people to latch on." 

"This is not good for us," said Bill. "It's a bunch of pressure we don't need." 

"Well, on the plus side... if you can call it that..." Gregg hedged. "The tone of this piece is not whipping up fear so much as... just blaming the parents."

"Great," grumbled Bill.

“The article even says that there has been no declared link between these murders. It's just reporting that there's a pattern. That's why it's Quarterback Killings and not Quarterback Killer. And the pattern, it claims, is that these are spoiled boys partying and running wild, and they're getting what's coming to them. This generation is declining thanks to rock and roll, stuff like that.” 

Bill sighed heavily. "Okay. Well. Papers can say whatever they want. Let's make a decision to not let that affect our attitude towards any of this, okay?"

Gregg blinked owlishly. "Of course, Bill." 

Bill glanced over at him. "So if you hear about this kid looking for drugs, or maybe trading services to queers for drugs, you're not going to get all turned around?"

"I'm not the ingenue people seem to think I am. I'll be fine." Gregg smiled blandly. "But I appreciate you looking out for me, Bill." 

\--

Detectives Freddie Allen and Nathan Hunt met them for coffee at their usual place, where they'd treated the agents after road school before. 

"Good to see you again," Bill said, shaking their hands. "Wish it was under better circumstances."

"I tell you," said Detective Allen. "That's the standard police officer greeting, isn't it?" 

Bill really liked Allen and Hunt. Freddie Allen was in his mid-sixties, if not older, as he'd been putting off retirement as long as Bill had known him. He was taller than Bill, so tall that he usually hunched over a little to accommodate for it. And he was skinny, with Coke-bottle thick glasses and a thatch of white hair right on top of his head. Every time Bill looked at him he thought of that nursery rhyme about the crooked man who walked a crooked mile.

Nathan Hunt, Allen's partner of about three years, was not exactly complementary-- he was tall, too, and strong, with sharp, clear eyes and a sharp, quick mouth. He was about forty, and had been in the Navy, as evidenced by the tattoos on his forearms that normally wouldn't have been permitted to a police officer. 

Last they'd met, over drinks, Hunt had told Bill how the Navy released him in '66, right at the height of the Vietnam War, when his now-deceased mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He came home to take care of her and his, as he put it, “kinda simple” little brother. Bill appreciated guys who took care of their families. 

They caught up over lunch. Allen told stories about his grown-up daughters. One was a flight attendant-- though Allen called her a stewardess, and expressed hope that she’d marry a young pilot. The other was married with kids, and worked at a computer company, which had Allen radiating pride. 

Hunt, most definitely _not_ radiating pride, told a tale of woe about how his “kinda simple” brother had been roped in to selling cleaning products through some kind of owner-operated, direct-seller-triangle model that made no sense to Bill, or to Hunt. The brother had yet to recoup any of the money he had invested, which was ultimately Hunt’s money, and refused to listen to Hunt’s advice that it was all a scam. 

“He just listens to these fucking tapes all day,” Hunt scoffed. “Can’t tell him anything anymore.” 

“My wife liked the dish soap I got off you,” Allen said. “I mean, she said it was fine.” 

“Well, great. You guys can be his only customers.” 

Then, over coffee, the detectives shared the file on Christopher Haddon. It was all getting so familiar to Bill. 

"He had some weed and alcohol in him when he died," said Hunt. "And he had been bound. Poor kid didn't stand a chance. Couldn’t fight back. We figured that whoever did this got him intoxicated, and then tied him up."

"Didn't really need it, though. Kid was rawboned. You could tell he hadn't had a good meal in weeks.” Allen shook his head. "I tell you, it's a damn shame. His mother worked sixteen hours a day. Never had a moment to look in on him."

Hunt shook his head, too. "It's always the mothers, isn't it?" 

Allen frowned. "Well, if she had someone to help out, maybe it wouldn't have come to it."

“Yeah well, who’s fault is that? Husband’s a scumbag, but she chose to have kids with him.” 

Allen huffed. “Now, come on--”

“I think the outcome is the same,” Gregg spoke up. “His mother wasn't the one who stabbed him, so there's no point spending time on it." 

"I agree," said Bill. "Who were your leads when you started out?" 

“Local drug dealers," said Hunt. "He'd had a few altercations with some of them. They aren't the friendliest bunch in the world. But at the end of the day, he didn't owe anyone money, and he wasn't really stepping on anyone's toes."

"The worst we heard was that he was kind of annoying," said Allen. "Kids go to hang out with these guys because they're looking for something they can't get at home. But these drug guys, they won't tolerate you if you're not bringing something to the table. Mostly they just didn't want Chris around, but they didn't see him as a threat."

"How did he afford drugs?" asked Bill. "Did he do any... work for them?"

"He ran packages sometimes," said Hunt. "Wiry kid. Fast runner."

"I think that's why the paper tried to make him out to be an athlete," said Allen. "Christopher could have been on the track team. He wasn't, though." 

"So as you can imagine," said Hunt, "after we learned about the packages, we thought the most likely explanation was that a different crew caught him with a package, and tried to steal it from him."

Gregg frowned. "The ropes and stabbing seem a little extreme for that." 

"Yeah," Hunt conceded. "That bothered us, too. Maybe, we thought, they were trying to get information out of him about the other dealers. Maybe he pissed them off." 

"But then this thing broke in the paper," said Allen. "And now it seems obvious that we were barking up the wrong tree."

"Fucking embarrassing," added Hunt. "You gotta believe me, Agent Tench. We never thought this was related to those other kids."

"You read about them, though," said Bill. "Obviously."

"Yeah, but I mean-- that rich kid in DC was a mugging, we thought. Mugger moved his body to cover his tracks. And that kid in Manassas seemed like a hate crime."

"A hate crime?" asked Gregg, apparently having never thought of that theory.

Hunt shrugged. "Yeah, I mean that's what we figured. We didn't even know about this boy in Charlottesville." 

"And we hadn't seen the pictures of the dump sites," said Allen. "Maybe if we had... I gotta tell you, Bill, this whole thing has me turned around. I'm getting too old for this. The world is just so… I don't know anymore." 

Bill nodded. "Yeah. I get that feeling sometimes, too."

Allen glanced at the other guys, and leaned over the table, lowering his voice. "I tell you. My daughter comes to visit the other day with her kids, and her son has long hair. Past his shoulders! He's fourteen. And she just _lets_ him walk around like that. When I said that wasn't right, she got so mad at me she wouldn't speak to me for two days." He shook his head, baffled. "I mean, the kid's not going to be able to get a job! I was just trying to help."

Gregg chuckled.

"It's hard out there," said Bill. 

"I'm always putting my foot in it these days," Allen went on. "But I could at least do my job. I had that. And now, with this..." he tapped the newspaper on the table. "I don't know. I can't keep up anymore." 

"You beat yourself up too much, man. He always had a hunch," Hunt said to the agents, gesturing to his older partner. "This whole time we were looking into the drug dealers, he kept saying it wasn’t fitting right. He kept going back to the rope, the kid being dumped face down. And the jacket."

"The jacket?" Gregg leaned forward. "The paper only mentioned that he was found wearing it." 

"And none of the other boys were wearing theirs," said Bill. "Craig Ward didn't even have one." 

"Whoever did this took Christopher's jacket off him first," said Allen. "Tied him up in just his t-shirt. Stabbed him, let him bleed out. Then he put the jacket back on him." He shook his head and leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms. "I tell you. What the fuck is that about?" 

\--

Bill and Freddie Allen went for a smoke outside and let the younger guys settle up.

“Hey, Freddie,” Hunt poked his head outside. “You just left your wallet, man. Your badge and everything.”

“What?” Allen patted at his jacket clumsily. “Oh, Jesus.” 

Hunt returned his wallet and badge. “What would you do without me, old man?” 

Allen stuck his tongue out like a little kid, as Hunt went back in to use the john. “I tell you, Bill. I’m losing my damn mind. This case might be the one that breaks me.”

“Come on,” Bill said. “You’ve got way too many solves to quit now.” 

Allen peered down at his badge, held in slightly shaking hands. His eyes looked huge behind his thick glasses. “Eventually you gotta read the writing on the wall,” he said. “See your glory days behind you. Start leaving things to the young guys.” 

Bill flicked his cigarette, and said nothing. 

\--

Allen and Hunt showed the agents the dump site, but just as in Manassas, Bill didn't feel there was much to glean from it. He took photos, and looked at the houses lining the edges of the field.

"Is this a wealthy area?" asked Gregg. "Seems nice."

"Yeah, it is," said Hunt. "Most of this wasn't here ten years ago. Middle class, young families. Starter homes, I guess you'd call it."

"And this field," Bill nodded around himself. "Is this going to be developed for anything, or is it done?" 

"I think they were going to put in a fountain at one point," said Hunt. "But they didn't. It's just parkland. There's a little playground over there, though." He pointed at a far end of the field, where the houses got a bit denser. Small children played on the playground, shrieks audible from the dump spot. "So it's just that and this green space." 

"Makes this thing all the more gruesome," Allen sighed. His thatch of white hair rustled in the breeze. He looked like the wind was about to carry him away. "He was dumped right here, just a stone's throw from that playground. I tell you. Any of those kids could've found him."

"Who did find him?" asked Bill, thumbing the dial on his disposable camera.

"A lady. Lives over there." Hunt pointed to the opposite end. "Went for an early morning jog."

"How long had he been here?" 

"Less than twelve hours," said Allen. "His mother hadn't even come home from work yet." 

Gregg looked troubled. He dropped his gaze and closed his eyes. Praying, Bill thought. He did that sometimes, at crime scenes. 

Bill looked down at the nondescript bit of earth Gregg was praying over. The grass was a little long for a public green space. Overdue for mowing. 

Bill turned away, and took pictures of the houses on the edge of the field. 

\--

Bill dropped his disposable camera at a one-hour place. They went back to the precinct to look at the other photos and reports they had for Christopher Haddon. They listened to the long interview Allen and Hunt had conducted with Christopher's mother.

"That is the saddest thing I have heard in a long time," said Bill, when it was finished. 

Mrs. Haddon was as distraught as he'd expect anyone to be, with an added edge of exhaustion and frustration. 

She was also a very good witness, as Bill got the sense that she had no illusions or fantasies about what kind of life her son was leading. She was forthcoming about everything she knew, and not interesting in hiding any of own her flaws. When you have literally nothing left to lose, Bill thought, you had nothing to hide. 

"I already know what everyone thinks of me," she had sobbed at one point on the tape. "I don't care. I just want you to find the motherfucker who did this!" 

"Yeah, it was a rough go," said Allen. "Poor woman. Ex-husband's in prison in Oregon, so even if he wasn’t a deadbeat, he’s no help. And her other son's still deployed. She said he tried to get a furlough, but they still haven't put it through."

"Really?" Bill scowled.

"Yep. He's already missed the funeral. Mrs. Haddon had to deal with it all by herself." 

"Jesus," Bill grumbled. It wasn't often that he was unimpressed by the army that had treated him so well-- in a manner of speaking-- but it was happening more and more often. "Maybe I'll call my old XO. Maybe something got lost in the shuffle."

"Well, it's a bit late now," said Allen. "I tell you. This used to be such a great country."

Detective Hunt gave Gregg a look like _when will these old men quit yabbering?_ "We found Mrs. Haddon to be very reliable," he said. "And all the leads she gave us were in line with the theories we had anyway. I mean, she'd suspect some random attacker even less than we would." 

Bill sighed. 

There was a timid knock on the door. A young black woman, her hair ironed straight and pushed back by a headband, peeked into the room.

"Hey, Rose!" Detective Allen smiled warmly at her. He introduced the agents. "This is Rose Larson, one of our, uh-- our civilian secretaries. You need something, honey?" 

"I…" Rose looked caught out. "I was just wondering if y'all wanted some coffee or anything."

"We had coffee," said Hunt. "We're fine, Rose."

Rose nodded. "Well, we have water and tea--"

"Rose," said Hunt. "These gentlemen are from the FBI. They don't have time for this, okay?" 

Eyes wide, Rose nodded again. "Okay. Sorry, sir." 

Allen sighed as she closed the door. "You could be nicer, you know." 

"Freddie!" Hunt sputtered a laugh. "Civilians can't be barging in here while we're discussing cases. And you shouldn’t go on easy on someone just because they're a woman." 

"That's not--" Allen cut himself off and shook his head.

"She has more important things to do than get coffee," said Hunt. "Who's been telling her to get coffee, I wonder? She's not a coffee girl." 

"I didn't say she was a coffee girl." Allen sounded indignant. "I said she was a secretary." 

Bill and Gregg shared a glance. Bill huffed a laugh. "Having a hard time adjusting to women in the precinct, Freddie? I've been there."

Detective Allen made a surprised face. "I don't have a problem with broads at work."

"Oh my god," Hunt muttered.

"What? I think they bring a nice touch to the place," said Allen. "And I'll tell you, some of these girl detectives in Vice--"

"Freddie, Jesus," said Hunt. "It's not the fifties anymore. Can you calm down?"

Allen looked very confused. "I was paying them a compliment," he muttered. 

Bill looked through the photos again. "I feel like Agent Smith and I aren't contributing a whole lot to your investigation," he said. "But this has been pretty fruitful for our profile. The jacket thing is notable, at least. And the lifestyle difference between Chris and our other boys."

Gregg had gotten his notepad out, and was already dutifully taking notes while Bill lit a cigarette. 

"He doesn't stalk them for very long," Bill said. "Given how Jeremy Adams' parents are so wealthy, he probably wouldn't have picked him if he knew that. He just liked how Jeremy looked-- All-American. He picked him up in DC when he could've been anyone, and dropped him in Bethesda, but not because Jeremy's parents lived there. He chose it for a different reason." 

"Could he have been working in Bethesda temporarily?" Gregg wondered.

"That's what we were thinking with that bus driver in Manassas," said Bill. "But I haven't quite connected it yet."

"Bus driver?" Allen asked. Hunt nudged him to shut up. 

"Christopher was the only one actually wearing a letter jacket," said Bill. "Otherwise, he didn't look the part. But that's a powerful symbol. Our guy is hunting for a very specific look that only makes sense to him. He's definitely luring them with drugs, I have no doubt about that now. He doesn't care if they're actually hard users or just curious. It's not about that for him."

"It's a means to an end," said Gregg. "It's not part of the fantasy." 

"That's right," Bill nodded.

"Fantasy?" Allen looked disgusted. 

Hunt, on the other hand, looked intruiged. "He doesn't care about _them_," he said. "The boys are just a means to an end, too?" 

Gregg nodded. "Whether they're actually athletes, or look like athletes, or _just_ have a letter jacket, it doesn't matter. They simply have to play a role for him." 

"We can narrow his potential dump site to these fields in the suburbs," said Bill. "That seems like part of the fantasy, too."

"Re-enacting something that happened in his youth?" Gregg suggested.

"Maybe," said Bill. "But he's not picking them up there. He could be picking them up anywhere." He took a drag of his cigarette. "We'll have to double check if those other fields have playgrounds. One was zoned to build an elementary school soon. I wonder if he knew that." 

"You're thinking he has the dump site picked out before he has the boy picked out?" asked Gregg.

"It would make sense," said Bill. "He'd need the kill space picked out, too. To conceal that much evidence and not leave any trail between the kill space and the dump site. He plans all that out, and then looks for the right boy. Whoever's nearby that's the closest to his fantasy." 

Allen looked between them, his brow furrowed. "Jesus," he said. "You guys are onto something at the FBI. So... who should we be looking for?" 

Bill heaved a heavy sigh. "A white male in his late 20s to mid 40s."

Allen and Hunt both slumped a little in disappointment. "For a second there," said Allen. "I thought you'd figured it out!" 

\--

Detective Hunt saw the agents out, shaking both their hands. "Don't be a stranger," he said. "We'd love to have one of your classes here again, soon. Though, obviously we didn't pay close enough attention last time." 

As they were heading towards their car, a female voice stopped them. "Special Agents?" Rose Larson stood in front of the precinct doors, shivering slightly in the wind.

"Hey, Rose," said Bill. "Do they need us back?" 

"I was just wondering... do y’all have a, um... a business card or something?" 

Bill and Gregg shared a glance.

"Detective Hunt is our contact for this case," said Gregg. "You can reach us through him." 

"Oh," said Rose. "Okay." 

Bill pulled out his notepad. Scrawled out the main number, and their extension. "Our unit is called the Behavioural Science Unit," he said. "You can ask for Agent Smith, or myself, but anyone down there can take a message." He ripped out the paper and gave it to her. "Rose, we can only talk to you if it's about the Quarterback case. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Agent Tench." She smiled at him nervously.

Detective Hunt, whom Bill had seen in the corner of his eye through the glass precinct doors, stepped outside. "Hey, Rose," he said. "Thought I told you not to bother those guys. Come on." He grinned, like he was teasing her.

"She wasn't bothering us," said Bill. "My wife wanted me to pick up a new sewing machine while I was in the city. I completely forgot where I was supposed to go. Rose did some police work and found the store for me." He smiled. 

"Oh, all right," said Hunt.

"Thanks, Rose." Bill patted her on the shoulder, and turned before she could respond.

"My wife is thinking of getting a new sewing machine, too," Gregg asked as they buckled in. "Is Nancy getting a Singer or a Brother?" 

Bill frowned at him. "Gregg, there's no new sewing machine." 

\--

By the time Bill got home, his family had started eating dinner without him. "Sorry I'm so late," he said, bending down to kiss Nancy on the cheek.

"It's fine," she said, sipping at her glass of white wine. 

Bill started cutting up his fish. 

Holden stared down at his plate, face blank. He didn't touch his meal. Nancy was clearly pissed off, sitting tensely with wine in one hand. Nobody said anything.

The only person acting normally was Brian, who ate his peas one by one.

Bill looked between Nancy and Holden. "How was everyone's day? How was DC?"

Holden's shoulders started creeping up.

Nancy put her wine glass down. "Holden has something to tell you," she said.

Holden made an unhappy little sound.

"What's wrong?" asked Bill.

"Holden?" Nancy prodded.

Holden sighed heavily. He mumbled something Bill didn't catch.

"What?" asked Bill.

Nancy narrowed her eyes. "We agreed you would be the one to tell him, Holden," she said. 

Holden shifted in his seat. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry about what?" 

"Holden got in trouble on the field trip," said Nancy. 

"I see," said Bill.

"We have to go see his principal tomorrow," she continued.

"What? Both of us?" 

Nancy glared at him. "Yes, _both_ of us. You think I'd drag you into this if I didn't have to?"

Bill blinked. "Drag me into this?" He looked at Holden, who was glaring at his plate. "How bad can it be?"

"Why don't you tell him, Holden?" 

Holden looked away stubbornly.

Nancy put her hands on the table. "Holden and that _Cheryl Tuckman_ girl wandered off from the group," she said.

"Okay," said Bill. "So what, you went to an arcade or something?"

Holden stayed quiet.

"Did you… sneak off to make out?" Bill guessed.

"Bill, they were missing for two hours," said Nancy. "They almost got left behind.”

"Well," said Bill, "I'm sure he understands why that's bad." 

Nancy closed her eyes and huffed. "Bill, you're not listening to me. He was at 14th and I!" 

Bill chewed his food for a moment while this sunk in. Then he choked it down in a hurry. "What the _fuck_?" He turned to Holden, who flinched, pulling his shoulders up protectively. "14th and I? Are you kidding me, Holden?"

"The teacher's assistant found him and Cheryl in front of the Butterfly Club," said Nancy. "Talking to one of those... _men_ that hand out flyers."

"_What?_"

Holden stared at his food, silent and still.

The handful of blocks around 14th and I Street formed DC's small but thriving red light district. It was extremely close to the White House and the National Mall-- politicians were its main clientele, obviously. (It was where, a few years earlier, a congressman fell in love with a curly-haired stripper named Fanne Foxe, sparking a national scandal. Bill teased Nancy about her Fanne Foxe hair for months after that, but not enough to make her consider changing it. He _loved_ her curls.) 

The Butterfly Club was one of several seedy joints that populated those blocks, with strippers, peep shows, and private 'intimate model suites.' Not that Bill had any first-hand knowledge.

"What were you thinking?" Bill demanded. 

Holden stayed quiet, head down, shoulders hunched up.

"Holden," said Bill. "What on earth were you doing taking Cheryl to a place like that?"

Holden blinked. "We didn't go in," he said.

"But what…?” 

"It's been like this all afternoon," said Nancy. "You can't get a straight answer out of him."

"Why did you wander away from the field trip?" Bill asked, trying to be more precise in his questioning. "Did you have a plan?"

Holden sighed dramatically. "We stayed with the group until the White House, then we split off. We were going to meet back with them at the Washington Monument. We didn't think they'd notice we were gone.”

Nancy shook her head, giving Bill a _see what I've been dealing with?_ face.

"Of course they were going to notice, Holden," Bill said slowly. "You take a bus load of kids to the city, you count them."

"They _didn't_ notice," said Holden. "They would've found us sooner if they had. It was only when they were getting ready to leave." He fidgeted in his seat, pouting even harder. "We just lost track of time." 

"But what were you trying to do?" asked Bill. "Why did you go to the Butterfly Club?" 

Holden glared at his food. 

Bill took a second to consider the possibility that Holden was actually _that_ clueless. "Holden, did you know what they do at the Butterfly Club?"

Something passed over Holden's face. He softened, and straightened up. "No, sir," he said.

Nancy scoffed.

Bill narrowed his eyes. "So why did you leave the group?" 

"We just thought it was boring," said Holden.

"And of all the places to go, you went straight to 14th and I?" asked Bill.

Holden fidgeted.

"Was it Cheryl's idea?" Nancy asked, her tone clearly conveying how she would feel about _that_. 

The hopeful look left Holden's face. He hunched again, head bowing over his plate. "No. It wasn't her idea. It was just... where we ended up." 

"Well, that's convenient," said Nancy.

"What were you talking to the flyer guy about?" asked Bill.

"He wanted to give us flyers," Holden mumbled.

"He wanted to give two clearly underage kids flyers," said Bill. "For his adults-only establishment." 

"Nevermind," said Holden. "It doesn't matter."

Bill's eyes widened. "Nevermind?"

"I don't understand why you care," Holden mumbled. "You're not my parents."

"Excuse me?" Nancy sounded scandalized.

Holden grumbled. He rose from his seat and turned to leave.

"Hey!" Bill shouted. "Sit your ass back down. Nancy cooked this meal for you and you're going to eat it."

Holden stood still, just barely trembling with anger, face dark.

"Sit. Down. Holden." 

Holden sat.

"Now eat your damn dinner," said Bill. "I know your mouth is healed up and your braces got fixed. Don't try that on me." 

Holden started picking at his meal, head bent low.

Nancy was cutting up Brian's fish. Unlike earlier dinner table arguments, Brian didn't seem upset by this one. _Maybe he's getting used to them,_ thought Bill. He immediately realized how grim a proposition that was.

"We'll find out tomorrow what happened," Nancy said. "And they called Miss Wong, too. I don't know if they got a hold of her, though." 

Bill shoved mashed potatoes into his mouth like a starving man. 

Nancy gave him a considering look. "They want to see us at 10:00. They're gonna talk to Cheryl's parents first." 

"Ten?" Bill huffed. "They really need both of us there?"

"Bill, yes," she sighed. 

"I just... I have work, Nance." 

"I don't know what to tell you. They said both parents, and they're also telling the case worker. He almost got lost in a red light district. It's a big deal."

"I didn't get lost," Holden huffed.

"You be quiet," said Bill.

"I finished eating," Holden said, flat out ignoring Bill. "May I wash my dishes and go to my room, please?"

Nancy sighed heavily. "Fine, go," she said. 

Holden grabbed his plate and slipped away from the table. Bill watched him warily as he cleaned off his dishes in the sink and then went off to his room without a backwards glance. 

Nancy was quiet for the rest of dinner. She finished up pretty quickly, too, and then took Brian to clean him up, leaving Bill to finish his dinner alone. 

\--

It wasn't a very restful evening.

While Nancy gave Brian his bath and read him his stories, Bill sat at the dining room table with his copies of the Christopher Haddon photos. 

He’d picked up his photos from the one-hour place when they left Richmond. Now he flipped through the photos of that field, and saw a whole lot of nothing. 

He put out his copy of the crime scene photo-- Christopher face down. Allen was right-- the jacket had been placed on him after the stabbing. It was still a little bloody, but obscured what would have been a much more gruesome sight. 

Around Christopher’s death pose, he arranged some of his quickie photos of the field, recreating the scene the best he could. Is this what the killer saw when he placed the body?

Bill got out his notepad and started jotting down some words. It was something he’d learned from Wendy. He didn’t do it very often— it felt a little silly— but sometimes, when he was really stuck, it helped get him unstuck. 

FANTASY, he wrote, and circled it. Around it he wrote little words as they came to him, things the Haddon scene made him think of. _Playground. Elementary school. Athlete. Jock. Hazing._

These murders were not hazings gone wrong. But could they be recreations of one that did? _Did some jocks humiliate this guy once, in a field?_ Bill wondered. 

Fantasies usually started very young, though, if their emerging science was right about anything. He added another link to his word cloud.

_Hazing —> Assault on a child?_

Was it possible that, when the killer was young, some sports teams sent members out to hurt children as a form of hazing? It seemed like a stretch, but nothing surprised Bill at this point. 

He wrote a quick list:

_Between the years of 1940 and 1955  
\- Assaults on children  
\- School team hazing rituals  
\- Bullying_

Bullying on its own didn’t seem like something Bill would be able to find any records about. It was just a normal part of a kid’s life, wasn’t it? Healthy, even, as Bill’s dad would say. 

But if there was something really extreme, something that would have made it to the papers or a police report, maybe his team could find it. It was a long shot, but all he had right now were long shots. 

In any case, that still felt like he was chasing his own tail. A fantasy like this could start even earlier, with the family. He started a new word cloud. 

_FAMILY —> Teen Father? _

Even as Bill wrote it, he felt it was a leap. He'd heard of plenty of teen mothers, but he'd never heard of a teen father. They weren't the ones who had to deal with the consequences. 

A teen mother, however, might have a young boyfriend who shows up wearing one of these jackets. _Teen mother —> stepfather_, he amended. He’d certainly heard of his share of shitty stepparents, and encountered them in the flesh to boot. 

What else could be happening in the family to cause this fixation?  
_ —> an older brother._ Abuse could come from siblings, Bill figured.  
_ —> father pressures him to be an athlete. _ Maybe the All-American athlete boys represented an ideal he could never live up to?

Bill felt like he was circling the drain. None of these really emerged as a usable profile. ‘You're looking for a white man between his late 20s and 40s who might have felt pressure to be an athlete, and may have been been hazed,’ was almost as useless as ‘a white male between his late 20s and 40s.’

There had to be something else, Bill thought. Everybody else in his generation got through that distant dad, male culture bullshit without killing kids for fun. Something else happened to this guy. 

"What is this?" Nancy interrupted his thoughts. 

"Oh," he said. "Just some work." He hastily tried to scoop up the pictures.

But Nancy was already looking over his shoulder, hand to her mouth. "Poor thing," she said. "I read about this. That's what you were up to today?"

"Yeah." He quickly shoved all the photos back in a manila folder. 

"Bill…" Nancy sighed. "Do you really have to take this stuff home with you?"

"I didn't go back to the office," said Bill. "I would've missed dinner completely if I did." 

"Well, leave it in your cabinet," said Nancy. "Or the car, at least." 

"Nance, I thought I had a hunch," he said. "I had to chase it. And I'm losing tomorrow morning, because of the meeting with the principal."

Nancy sighed again. She closed her eyes. "Fine," she finally said, rubbing her face. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm right behind you," said Bill. He shoved Christopher Haddon in his briefcase. Shut it with a _click_. A tiny little coffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think anybody was asking for more Gregg Smith, especially not me. Thanks for sticking through it!


	14. Parent-Teacher Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Nancy meet Holden's principal and teacher. It does not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends. 
> 
> CW: Domestic violence.

If the principal wanted to ensure that parents were in a shitty mood before they even saw him, scheduling a meeting at 10:00 AM on a workday did the trick.

Holden avoided them that morning, staying scarce before he sulked out the door to catch his bus at the usual time. 

Bill had to tell Wendy he’d be missing half a day, when she was already displeased with him being so absent lately. He didn’t even get the perk of a nice long breakfast with Nancy, since Brian was especially fussy that morning. Then they dropped Brian off with his godparents, the Randalls. Bill had to sit there, smiling politely, while Nancy and Barbara caught up over tea and cookies. (Not that he minded the cookies.) 

The Randalls had a little girl of five, and a boy of three. Bill watched as Brian played with them. He got along well with them, it seemed. But mostly, the girl bossed the other two around, and Brian would comply without enthusiasm. Bill didn’t know what to make of that. When do you sit your kid down and tell him he’s supposed to smile at his friends? 

By the time they actually got to James Monroe High, Bill was already tapped out on his limits of normal person small talk. 

"The principal will be about ten more minutes," the secretary told them when they checked in at the front desk.

Bill could see Holden through a door behind her, waiting in the area in front of the principal's office. If Holden saw them, he pretended he didn’t. 

"You can have a seat in that waiting area," the secretary said. "Or you could look at the trophy cases in the hall, if you like."

They went to look at the trophies. 

James Monroe had photos from athletic and academic teams going back to the mid-fifties. 

“Hey, look.” Bill pointed at an old photo from around 1960, of that year’s newspaper club. “That’s Art Spencer. Do you remember when someone stole the nativity scene in front of the church? He was the detective on that case.” 

“Aww!” Nancy smiled, looking at the picture. “He was a cute little guy.”

“Yeah. What a dork.”

“Oh, Bill.” Nancy smacked him gently on the arm. “I wonder if Hillside still has our pictures up.” 

"I'm not sure Hillside is there any more," said Bill. "Probably tore it down and built something nicer." 

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Nancy. Bill didn’t argue.

James Monroe boasted its fair share of trophies in its long case. In pride of place was a trophy from the state football championships, dated two years earlier in 1975. It seemed they hadn’t won anything that big since. 

Near the trophy hung a large photo of the winning team from that year, smiling, hopeful boys, their names engraved on the bottom of the frame. CAPTAIN: T. MORRIS. In the picture, T. Morris, a hearty, good-looking, dark-haired kid, hoisted the trophy above his head, surrounded by proud teammates. 

After looking at a few more of the old photos, and remembering stories from their high school days, Bill and Nancy went back around to the waiting area in front of the principal’s office. 

Holden sat, stiff as usual, with his arms crossed, glaring at the floor. He didn't greet them as they came in.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the door of the principal’s office opened. Cheryl Tuckman, head bowed, face hiding behind her limp brown hair, came out. A furious-looking woman in a nurse’s outfit held Cheryl’s arm in a tight grip.

The nurse pursed her lips when she saw them. “Nancy.”

Bill and Nancy stood. “Hello, Stephanie,” Nancy said, clearly trying to sound pleasant. “It’s nice to see you.”

Holden was watching them, wide-eyed. He once again stood hastily, like he forgot that he should've stood when Cheryl came out.

Stephanie narrowed her eyes at Holden, then marched Cheryl off without another word. Cheryl glanced back at Holden, who bit his lip, looking confused. 

A woman in her fifties appeared in the doorway of the principal's office. "Mr. and Mrs. Tench? Come on in." She wore a matronly floral dress, her hair swept into an imposing up-do at least twenty years out of date. "You wait here, Holden," she said, smiling warmly at him. 

Holden tilted his head very slightly, a little skeptical. He slowly took his seat again. Bill realized that he didn't have his knapsack with him, or a book, or anything. Holden held his hands fisted tightly in his lap. 

"I'm Mrs. Reid," the matronly woman said as she closed the door behind them. "I'm Holden's civics teacher. That means I have him for American History and American Government right now. This is Principal McNarland."

A skinny guy in his thirties-- too young for Bill to have assumed he was the principal-- stood in front of a filing cabinet. He turned when they came in, tried to close the cabinet, and caught his finger in it. "Ah, jeeze!" he cried. “Sorry. Nice to meetcha. How’s it going?” He cheerfully reached out to shake their hands. 

Nancy introduced them, and they sat in a row of chairs in front of the principal’s desk. 

McNarland fiddled with his tie nervously as he took his seat. Mrs. Reid sat near the desk, not quite behind the principal, and had the appearance of being his mother or coach. 

"I just don't understand what’s gotten into Holden," said Nancy. "He won't tell us anything about what happened on the field trip.“ 

Mrs. Reid looked at McNarland expectantly, while the young principal cleaned his glasses with his shirt.

"Well, he hasn't said much to us, either, and neither has Cheryl. They were buddies for the field trip, so they were supposed to watch out for each other. That's on us, obviously. We’ve learned that pairing up friends just gives them an alibi." 

Bill frowned. 

"I noticed they were missing during the White House tour," said Mrs. Reid. "And I have to say, it gave me quite a scare. I got all the other kids together and sent my teacher's aide in a cab to try and find them. I certainly didn't expect for them to be near the Butterfly Club." 

“This is really unlike Holden,” Nancy said, her tone worried. 

Mrs. Reid shook her head. "I'm inclined to believe it was Cheryl's idea. The poor girl’s a bit... troubled. Her father died last year, and apparently she's very quite close to an aunt who’s something of a bad influence. But neither of them have any real explanation about why they ran off." 

"Kids run off," said Bill. "This can't be that unusual."

"No, but for Cheryl, it's a distressing pattern," said Mrs. Reid. "And for Holden, well..."

Bill scowled. "What about Holden?" 

"He's a great kid," said Nancy. "Usually. He helps out a lot at home, and he's always studying."

"Mrs. Tench, how long has Holden been living with you?" asked Mrs. Reid.

"Since Christmas," Nancy said, sounding caught out. "Right before he started coming here."

Reid and McNarland shared a glance.

"Holden is a very bright boy," said Mrs. Reid. "And as I said, I would not have guessed any of this was his idea. But his grades have never been stellar.”

"He's at risk at failing grade nine,” said McNarland. "And with this stunt..." 

“The field trip was graded for participation, and there’s a reflection essay,” said Mrs. Reid. “Without participating in the field trip, it’s an automatic F.” 

“Wait,” said Bill. “He’s failing grade nine?” 

“He’s at risk,” McNarland repeated. “He was already very behind in math and science. In fact, he’s in remedial classes for both of those. We have him scheduled for summer school to catch up with math.”

“What?” Bill and Nancy looked at each other. 

“He-- no one mentioned this,” said Nancy. 

Mrs. Reid pursed her lips.

But Mr. McNarland nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes with foster kids, things get lost in the shuffle. What often happens-- and did, in Holden’s case-- is that you fall behind every time you move schools. He was already held back a grade because of this, before, as I’m sure you must know.”

“Well, yes,” said Nancy. “But we didn’t know he was _still_ falling behind.”

Mrs. Reid tutted. “He never completed eighth grade math or science. We have him in a program that will catch him up with science, but for math, he’s going to have to take summer school. So, if he can get his grades up, and completes summer school, then he won’t have to be held back.”

“It’s not all bad news,” said Mr. McNarland. “He’s doing just fine in English.”

“And History, in fact,” added Mrs. Reid.

“But he’s just skating by in American Government, science, and Spanish. And that’s not even considering that when he gets to tenth grade and chooses electives, he might not be able to stay on top of them. And he needs them in order to graduate.” 

“Basically,” said Mrs. Reid, “if he fails two classes, which is very likely, he won’t be able to progress to tenth grade. He’s going to be spending the summer catching up on math, so there won’t be time for him to catch up on the other classes.” 

The Tenches sat in confused silence for a moment. 

Nancy tilted her head. “But he’s so clever. He’s always reading and studying. Right, Bill?"

Bill frowned. "Yes," he finally said. "He's always reading." 

"He simply doesn't engage in class," said Mrs. Reid. "The work he hands in is... sometimes adequate. But he doesn't put in any effort. Mrs. Tench, do you ever help him with his homework? Or check it over?”

"He's never asked for help with his homework," Nancy said, defensively.

"Well, a child like Holden would hardly _ask_," Mrs. Reid smiled condescendingly. Next to her, McNarland nodded, eyes closed. "Holden clearly doesn't think school is important. And if it's not reinforced at home, he won't change his mind." 

Nancy looked completely stricken.

"He's sixteen," said Bill, trying not to get too loud. "We've never fostered before. He's always going to the library, and he's always studying. I don't think it's reasonable to expect us to know we should have been checking his homework." 

“How do you know he's always at the library?" Mrs. Reid said, her tone honey sweet.

Bill had to physically stop himself from rising from his seat. This was an older woman, for God's sake, he told himself. "I've picked him up there plenty of times," he said. "And the staff all know him."

"All Mrs. Reid means is that children aren't always forthcoming," said McNarland. "Parents don't like to admit it, but it's easy for kids to keep secrets."

"And of course, if you've never fostered before, it would be a challenge," said Mrs. Reid. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't realize you didn't have any of your own children."

A breath of air left Nancy, and she slumped ever so slightly. 

Bill clenched his fists.

"We adopted a four-year-old," he said. "And when we took him home, the agency asked if we could take his foster brother. They vetted us." He didn't understand why he was feeling so prideful about this, except that this woman was hurting Nancy's feelings, and that was unacceptable to him. 

"Mr. Tench, may I ask what it is you do?" McNarland said.

"I'm an FBI agent," Bill spat. "I study multiple murderers."

"Oh, Bill," Nancy breathed, putting one hand over her face.

McNarland stiffened. He and Reid shared one of those knowing glances. "Well, that... that is certainly good to know," said the young principal.

"Mr. and Mrs. Tench," said Mrs. Reid. "We wanted to meet you to get a better picture of Holden's home life. You seem like very well meaning people. I think Holden just needs a bit more structure when it comes to his schoolwork, a bit more attention."

"More attention," repeated Nancy. Her face was pale. "I mean... we pay him lots of attention."

"It can be an adjustment," said Mrs. Reid. "Trust me, I've been teaching for decades. I've seen kids in all sorts of situations. You just need to check in on him a bit more. He needs to know someone’s rooting for him.” 

Nancy and Bill shared another look. Nancy seemed confused and miserable. "Okay," she said. "We can-- we can do that, right Bill?"

"Sure," said Bill. 

"And there’s… another matter," said McNarland. 

"Oh, now what?" asked Nancy. She looked like she was about to cry.

"It's policy, after incidents like this, to search the student's lockers and backpacks," said the young principal. "We searched Cheryl Tuckman's locker first, and found two marijuana cigarettes."

Nancy gasped loudly, putting her hand over her heart. "Did Holden have drugs in his locker?!"

Mrs. Reid smiled indulgently. "No, Mrs. Tench, he didn't have anything like that." 

Nancy sighed in relief. Bill patted her knee. He didn’t think Holden would know what to do with a marijuana cigarette. But then again, he didn’t think Holden knew about the Butterfly Club, either. 

"We did find something quite disturbing when we searched his bag, though." Mr. McNarland swallowed, looking at a well-worn notebook sitting on the side of his desk. He slid it towards them. 

Nancy and Bill leaned forward. It was Holden's old notebook, the one Bill had seen on him several times before. 

"What is it?" asked Nancy. She opened it, and gasped. "Bill!" 

Bill could only describe the insides of the book as _deranged_. Every page was dense with ink and graphite, sometimes written at an angle, sometimes written in spirals. Most of it was too densely written for Bill to read, but it was all unmistakably Holden’s neat printing. 

The most immediately shocking sights were the drawings. 

On the very first page was a childish drawing of a striped cat. It was lying on its side and it had Xs for eyes. 

After that, between the pages of dense words, were several untalented sketches of human bodies. All female, some nude, all clearly dead. One was decapitated, some were missing limbs, most were simply slumped over, lifeless bodies with nondescript faces. 

One was obviously a drawing of the Black Dahlia, with special attention given to her gruesome Glasgow Grin. This made Bill think the others were similarly drawn from photo references, or at least from descriptions. Despite the overall untrained quality of the drawings, there was a certain realistic element to the poses that didn’t feel like they were drawn from imagination.

Over one of these dead woman drawings, for no readily apparently reason, were the carefully printed words HOLD FAST. 

One page featured a crude cartoon of a bird with a dagger going through it, little drops of blood flying off. The bird's beak was open, as if it was squawking in pain, and it also had Xs for eyes. 

And every now and then, a newspaper clipping was taped into the journal. At a glance, they were all about murdered women. It seemed, to Bill, like the drawings of corpses were meant to be illustrations of the articles.

"What is this?" Nancy sounded horrified. "Have you seen this, Bill?"

"No," said Bill. "Not the inside."

"Not the inside?" McNarland and Reid looked surprised.

"Well, he's always writing in it. He'd say it was homework."

"It's _not homework_, Mr. Tench," McNarland said, eyes wide and serious. “It's pretty disturbing stuff. And hearing about the line of work you're in… well, it sort of helps paint a picture."

"Excuse me?" Bill scowled. "You think this is because of me?" 

Mrs. Reid smiled at him. "Nobody is accusing you of anything, Mr. Tench," she said, very, very calmly. "We’re just concerned about Holden's preoccupation with murder, given the clippings and drawings."

Bill tried not to glare at her too obviously. _Don't try to fucking good-cop me_, he thought. 

Nancy closed the book and held it very gingerly, like she was afraid of it. "Holden had this book when he came to live with us," she said. "And these clippings are old. Bill takes great pains to keep his work out of the house." She gave him a sharp look, like _You do keep that cabinet locked, don't you?_

Bill felt a creep up his spine, and was very aware of the briefcase in the trunk of his car. The briefcase where he'd laid Christopher Haddon to rest, instead of in the cabinet in the garage. The briefcase he'd just left on the floor of his bedroom all night. 

But _he'd_ been in the bedroom all night, too. It's not like Holden could've snuck in there while he was asleep, right? 

"Have you spoken to his case worker?" Nancy asked. 

"Yes, I spoke to Miss Wong this morning," said Mrs. Reid. "She says she already knew about the book." 

"There, see?" Nancy set the book on the edge of the desk, teetering, like she didn't want to touch it anymore. "This has nothing to do with us." 

"Well, I don't think this Miss Wong is entirely aware of what's in the book," Mrs. Reid said, tutting. "When was the last time she visited with Holden?"

Nancy blinked, looked at Bill in bewilderment. 

"Regardless, Holden can't have this material at school," said McNarland. 

"Okay, we'll talk to him," said Bill. "And we'll talk to his case worker, too. Set up some more, uh… visits.” He looked at Nancy. "Why didn't she tell us about this to begin with?" he whispered.

"I think it's best if we all just talk with Holden now," said Mrs. Reid. "I find it's better to include children in decision making, instead of imposing decisions upon them." She levelled them with such a bland, condescending smile that Bill felt he had been directly insulted.

The look on Nancy's face indicated that she felt the same way.

While they were trying to figure out what, exactly, the teacher was saying about their novice parenting skills, and how they should respond, Mrs. Reid went to the door and called for Holden.

He stood in the doorway and scanned across the room, like an animal sensing if it was safe to enter. 

"Come here, sweetie," said Nancy, patting the seat next to her.

Holden hesitantly came over, glancing between everyone in the room, but not making eye contact with them. He noticed the book on the desk, and stiffened. He took his seat, mouth downturned and defensive.

"Holden," Mr. McNarland started. "Is there anything you'd like to tell us about this book?"

"It's my private property," Holden mumbled, staring at the book. "No one had permission to look at it."

"Well, when you're at school, you give up certain rights," McNarland said. "Just because something's in your bag doesn't mean you're allowed to have it." 

Holden just kept staring at the book.

"Holden, what is this supposed to be?" asked Mrs. Reid. "Is there something you're trying to say with it?"

His brow knit in confusion. “I’m not trying to say anything to anyone. It's private." 

“It’s disgusting, Holden,” said Nancy. 

Bill suddenly remembered Jerry Brudos’ mother burning his high heeled shoes. “Nancy,” he tried to interrupt. “Let’s not make it a thing.”

“Not make it a thing?!”

“Holden, we've spoken to your case worker," said Mr. McNarland. “And we know that your therapist knows about the book as well." 

“My therapy is supposed to be private, too,” Holden sounded offended.

"We all just want what's best for you," Mrs. Reid said gently. "Now, I was telling the Tenches that I don't believe this Miss Wong is aware of what's in your book--" 

“Of course she is!” 

“Holden, please don’t interrupt,” Reid shushed him with a severe look. 

Holden dropped his head back and stared at the roof, sighing noisily and dramatically.

“We know you’ve been through a lot, and it’s difficult," said McNarland. "With your mother leaving you and all--"

Holden suddenly stood.

“Holden,” Nancy reached for him.

He jerked his arm back, staring straight at Mr. McNarland. “My mother didn’t leave me,” he spat.

McNarland looked at a loss. “Well, according to Miss Wong—”

“My mother didn’t leave me,” Holden repeated. “She was coming back.”

“Holden.” Mrs. Reid's voice was soft as cotton. “It’s okay. Mr. McNarland misspoke. He was just trying to say that he knows it was hard for you, that’s all. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Uh, yes, that’s right, Mrs. Reid.” McNarland adjusted his glasses, and made a condescending little head bow. “I’m sorry, Holden.”

Holden sat back down, breathing heavily, tense as Bill had ever seen him. Nancy patted his shoulder, but he flinched away from her. 

“Is that everything?” Bill asked. “Are there any other terrible surprises in store?”

McNarland huffed an unhappy laugh. “This book is what I’m most concerned about. Regardless of what Miss Wong says, we can’t have this kind of thing at our school.”

“Why not,” Holden shot back. “I don’t even take it out of my bag.”

“It’s far too graphic, Holden,” said Mr. McNarland. “If another student saw it, they could find it seriously distressing.” 

“I just said,” Holden spat through clenched teeth, “that I never take it out of my bag. If people didn’t snoop, then they wouldn’t be distressed.”

“Just leave it at home, Holden,” Bill sighed.

“I don’t want it in my house,” said Nancy. “Not where Brian could find it.”

“That’s why I always have it with me,” Holden said. “You can’t make me get rid of it. It’s mine.” 

"Holden, rules are rules," Mrs. Reid said gently. "We've talked about this, remember? It's not fair to the other kids for you to be able to break the rules just because you're having a hard time." She smiled at him sweetly.

Holden stared at her, his mouth open slightly, brows knit. He slowly dropped his gaze, and slumped a bit in his chair. 

An uneasy ball roiled around in Bill’s stomach. He hated this fucking conversation and he wanted it to end. "Listen, we're sorry for all the trouble. We'll talk to Miss Wong, and we'll figure it out." 

“She’ll tell you that it’s mine,” said Holden. “There’s nothing to figure out. I want it back now.” He reached for the book.

“I think I should hang onto it,” Nancy said, quickly slipping it off the desk and into her purse. 

Holden’s glare could melt the side of an aircraft carrier, but he didn’t say anything.

“We’ll take care of this book,” Bill told Mr. McNarland. “Is there anything else?”

"Well, there's the issue of punishment," said McNarland.

"We were thinking of grounding him," said Nancy.

Holden huffed. 

"Of course, Mrs. Tench," said McNarland. "Whatever you think is best. I meant that, unfortunately, in a case like this, school policy is that Holden is suspended for a full week, starting tomorrow."

“Oh, Holden,” Nancy sighed. 

Holden crossed his arms tightly and turned away. 

Bill balked. "Suspended."

"Yes, sir."

"And I'm guessing that's not an in-school suspension."

McNarland shook his head. "I'm afraid school policy is very clear on this. Holden has to be restricted from school grounds for the whole week. Now, of course we'll send a course plan and homework with him. And he's not in any extracurricular clubs, so he won't be missing anything there." 

Nancy sighed, and put a hand in her hair. She didn't say anything. Bill knew this was like an anvil on her back. She already struggled so much just with Brian, and having a sulky Holden home for a whole week while Bill was stuck at work, with no more vacation days...

Bill checked his watch. "All right. Is that it?"

McNarland sighed. “Yeah. That’s it. Suspension for a week, and I really hope we don’t see such disturbing material from Holden again.”

“We’ll work on his grades,” Nancy promised. 

Holden heaved a large sigh. “Can I have my knapsack, please?”

“Mrs. Reid?” McNarland went to his filing cabinet.

Mrs. Reid gave Holden a long look, her lips curled up in a very subtle smile. She reached underneath the principal’s desk and handed Holden’s knapsack back to him.

“Thank you,” he said tersely. He stood up, put the knapsack on his chair, and immediately started digging through it. 

McNarland brought a thick file over from the cabinet. “All right, here’s the homework plan to keep Holden on track--”

“Where’s my Matchbox car?”

Everyone looked over at Holden. Holden addressed nobody in particular, just glaring hard into his bag, his shoulders tense.

“Pardon me?” Mr. McNarland looked baffled. 

Mrs. Reid took a step back, her arms crossed, her face hard. 

“My Matchbox car,” Holden huffed. His face slowly started to get red. 

“Honey,” Nancy stood, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I have two Matchbox cars,” Holden’s voice got louder. “I always have them with me. They were in my bag before I gave it to you to search.” 

“Are you sure you had two, Holden?” Mrs. Reid asked sweetly. 

“Yes! I had them here with my birth certificate. I never take them out of the plastic bag!”

“Holden, calm down,” said Mr. McNarland. 

“_You_ calm down!” Holden knocked over his chair. 

“Holden!” Nancy cried. 

Bill knew he should probably just put a stop to this. This wasn’t going to end well, and it wasn’t going to be as simple as Holden’s other tantrums. But what was he supposed to do? Throw Holden over his shoulder, like his old man would’ve done? 

And Mrs. Reid just stood there, with that calm, stoic face, that sweet little smile. 

“Holden,” McNarland tried to sound authoritative, but he was too young and too soft. “That’s not appropriate.” 

“Where is my Matchbox car?!” Holden was really worked up now. His face was red and sweaty, his eyes wild and manic. He seemed on the verge of sobs, trembling hard, pulling away from Nancy every time she tried to soothe him.

“I don’t know where it is, Holden,” McNarland said shakily. “I’m sorry. But nobody took it. There was only one in the bag when we searched it.” 

“That’s not true! I have two, I’ve always had two, and they’re always with my birth certificate. I can’t find it!” 

“Okay, Holden,” Mrs. Reid said firmly. "Calm down. Let me see. Maybe Mrs. Tench and I can help, hmm?"

“Yes, let us help.” Nancy patted Holden’s shoulder again.

Holden reluctantly let them look through his knapsack, breathing heavily through his nose, glaring white hot rage. 

Bill stood slowly, trying not to spook anyone. He quietly picked up the chair Holden had knocked over.

McNarland looked stunned and confused. “I-- I really didn’t see it in there, Holden.” 

“Here,” said Nancy. “Is this it?” She was holding the plastic bag, pinched down to one Matchbox car. 

“No, that’s the Mercedes convertible.” Holden started to sob, tears running freely down his face. It was like he had regressed ten years. “It’s a Ford Cortina. It’s brown and the doors open!”

“It’s all right, Holden,” said Nancy. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“They don’t make them anymore!” Holden shouted. He pulled at his hair.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Nancy tried to soothe. “Then I’ll get you some Hot Wheels.”

“I don’t _want_ Hot Wheels!” Holden cried. He kicked the principal’s desk. “I want _my_ Matchbox Ford Cortina!” 

“Holden—“

“A friend of my mother’s brought it all the way from England for me. I’ve had it since I was six!” Holden yanked himself violently away from Nancy’s grasp, vibrating with anger. Everybody gave him a wide berth. 

Holden slammed himself bodily into the wall, sobbing and panting hard. He pulled at his hair and thumped his head against the wall. 

“Holden,” Mrs. Reid said, sweet as pie. “This is not how to behave when you lose a toy.”

“I didn’t lose it! Someone took it! Give it back!” 

“Holden,” the teacher stood with her arms crossed, completely unfazed by this unravelling teenaged terror. “We’ve talked about this. You have to learn to communicate your needs better.” 

“Fuck you,” Holden spat.

“Holden!” Nancy gasped.

Holden turned so hard he almost fell over, and shoved at a nearby filing cabinet. It wobbled violently. 

“Okay, mister,” McNarland finally found his authoritative voice. “It’s a two week suspension now.”

“Great! Make it a month! I don’t care. Where the fuck is my Matchbox car?!”

“Bill, are you going to do something?” Nancy hissed at him.

Holden pulled at the filing cabinet, flinging it to the floor with a CRASH! Everyone took a panicked step back, except Bill. He stepped forward and caught Holden by the shoulders, boxing him in near the wall. 

“Stop it,” he said, firmly.

Holden gasped up at him, face wet and red. 

Bill squeezed Holden’s shoulders gently, making sure he wasn’t gripping him too hard or boxing him in too much. Holden wasn’t pressed entirely against the wall. He could squirm out of Bill’s grasp if he wanted to. It achieved, Bill hoped, the general feeling of security. 

“I know you’re upset,” Bill said. “I understand. But not here. Not right now. Okay?” 

Holden blinked, and more tears fell. His lip wobbled. He looked utterly miserable, trembling with anger and fear.

“All right,” said Bill. He took Holden by the wrist, and turned. “Let’s go.”

Holden pulled his wrist from Bill’s grasp and gripped his arm tightly with both hands. He buried his face into Bill’s bicep, breathing hard and fast, trying to contain full-on childish sobs.

“Okay,” said Bill. He patted one of Holden’s hands, which tightened its grip in response. “Nancy, could you give me his bag, please?” 

Nancy, who had been watching with her hands over her mouth in shock, quickly got the knapsack off the floor and zipped it up.

“I guess he needs books from his locker?” Bill slung the knapsack over his free shoulder.

“I’ll escort you,” Mrs. Reid said, looking as calm and unimpressed as the moment they’d walked in.

“I’ll— I’ll make him another homework pack,” McNarland stammered. “For the second week. If you’ll give me a moment, Mrs. Tench.” 

“Oh. Uh, sure,” Nancy said. She wiped at her eyes, and turned away as Bill followed Mrs. Reid out of the office.

Holden shuffled after Bill, still tightly pressing his face into Bill’s bicep. When they got to his locker, he scrambled with the lock, while Mrs. Reid watched, her hands on her hips.

“Holden, I know you feel things very strongly. But it’s not fair to accuse people of stealing when it’s far more likely that you lost it,” she said. “I want you to think very carefully about where you might have had it.” 

Holden slowed in his actions. He finally got the lock open. 

His locker was pretty sparse. Textbooks lined the shelf neatly. Holden huffily yanked them all out, as well as the old shopping bag he apparently used for his gym clothes.

There was only one picture hanging on the inside of his locker door. Someone-- Cheryl, Bill figured, or Debbie-- had drawn a bombastic red heart with an arrow through it, and a scroll across. HOLDEN was written in the scroll. 

When he noticed Bill looking, Holden yanked the heart drawing off the locker door. Casting a jealous glance at Bill, he carefully slid it between his textbooks. 

Nancy caught up with them, carrying the two folders of homework packs, sniffling. 

Holden closed his locker, and picked up his stack of textbooks. He sulkily looked up at Mrs. Reid. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Reid smiled warmly. “I accept your apology, Holden. I look forward to seeing you when you return to class.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

Head bowed, he followed his foster parents out of the school without a word. 

The car ride home was silent. Holden was radiating cold waves of anger in the backseat, as he put his textbooks into his knapsack, while Nancy occasionally sniffled in the passenger seat.

Bill, who had been keeping a lid on his irritation all morning, felt it getting hotter and hotter with every sniffle and sad little noise Nancy made. 

_This fucking brat,_ Bill thought. _Drags us into all this bullshit. Have to sit through some tired old bitch calling Nancy a bad mom. And for fucking what? Somebody else’s stupid kid, that they couldn’t even bother to raise?_

“Bill!” Nancy shouted. Bill swerved just in time to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him, which had stopped for a red light Bill hadn’t seen. Everything was looking a little red right now.

“Sorry,” he muttered. 

Holden sighed dramatically, making a show of retrieving his knapsack from where it had fallen off the seat.

Bill turned back and glared at him. Holden had his arms crossed, gripping his own sleeves so tight the seams threatened to snap. His face was still red, and he was still fidgeting with all that bratty entitlement. 

Finally, Bill got them home, and the anger had built up so much that he could barely breathe. He slammed his door getting out of the car, and stormed up the steps to unlock the front door. 

He turned back, and saw Nancy standing haplessly by the car. Holden was still inside, refusing to get out.

Bill stomped back down, threw open the door, and grabbed Holden by the lapel of his jacket. Dragged him out of the car.

“Oww!” Holden shouted. “Stop it!” He hugged his knapsack tight as Bill shoved him up the steps.

“Bill, not like that!” Nancy called.

Bill pushed Holden into the house with a shove. “What the fuck is that book, Holden? What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Why do you _give a shit_?” Holden shouted. “It’s none of your business!”

“It’s my business when you bring it into my house, and it’s my business when I have to take a day off work to deal with your bullshit!” 

“Bill, don’t shout,” Nancy pleaded.

“It’s not my fault your work is more important to you than your family is, Bill!” Holden’s eyes were wet with tears again, his face red. 

“Holden!” Nancy cried. “The two of you, please!” 

“You watch your fucking mouth,” Bill spat. 

“Give me my fucking book back!” Holden spat right back.

“Holden,” Nancy tried. “This is really disturbing stuff. I don’t want it in my house.” 

“It’s _my property_!” Holden screamed. “That asshole already took my Matchbox car, you don’t get to take my book!” 

“Nobody took your car, Holden,” Nancy cried. “Maybe you just lost it.”

“I didn’t lose it!” Holden stomped his feet. “Stop being such a bitch!”

“You watch your fucking mouth!” Bill snarled, putting a hand on Holden’s chest to keep him away from Nancy.

He must’ve pushed too hard, because Holden stumbled back as if he was shoved. He fell to the floor, just barely missed knocking his head on the wall of the kitchen. His knapsack fell to the floor with a heavy THUD!

Nancy gasped, covering her mouth. 

Holden, wide-eyed, wild-looking, scrambled to his feet, grabbed his knapsack, ran to his room and slammed the door.

“No you don’t!” Bill snarled. “We are not fucking finished here!”

“Bill!” 

He pulled away from Nancy’s hand on his arm, and kicked Holden’s door open.

“You apologize to Nancy right now!” 

“Leave me alone,” Holden muttered, standing in the middle of his room, clutching his backpack protectively.

“Bill,” Nancy stood in the doorway. But there was angry white fuzz crowding Bill’s brain. It made a tunnel out of his vision, and this train wasn’t going to stop now that it was going. 

“You listen here, you ungrateful little brat,” he spat. “You’re going to drop this bullshit right now if you know what’s good for you. We gave you a roof over your house and your own room, show some goddamn respect!”

“You gave me a room?” Holden said, incredulously.

“What do you think this is, you little moron?” Bill shouted. “We gave you your own goddamn room, which is more than a lot of kids get!”

“Bill, don’t!” Nancy was like a persistent little mosquito, buzzing in his ear and pulling at his arm, but he could barely hear or feel her. 

Holden’s eyes were huge and dark, his breathing very shallow. “Get out of my room,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me?!” Bill snarled.

“If it’s my room, then get out of my room. Get out of my room!” He hurled his heavy knapsack at Bill.

Bill put his arms up, and got smacked pretty good with those books. “You fucking--!”

Holden followed up the attack with Bill’s own records, throwing them at his face. “Get out!” He shouted as loud as he could. “Get out of my room!!” 

Bill had his arms up, and before he knew it, he had his fists clenched. 

Holden was like a little hurricane on one side of Bill, flinging debris, snarling and red-faced. And Nancy was like a woeful little tugboat on the other, paddling frantically against powerful waves to keep her grip on a massive warship. She seemed to be the only one who knew what would happen should the warship and the hurricane collide. 

Between the two of them, they managed to get Bill to stumble back enough that Holden slammed the door in his face.

“Fuck!” Bill punched the door, hard, making it shake in the doorframe, clearly only held shut by Holden pressed up on the other side.

“Bill, stop it!” 

He pulled back to punch the door again.

Nancy slapped him in the face. 

Everything stopped. Bill felt like he had been watching the last five minutes from a distance, and suddenly, with a slap, he’d been yanked back into his body. 

He dropped his fist. He took a step back from the door. His cheek stung, but he didn’t rub at it. He stared at Nancy in shock. 

“How dare you,” she said. She was crying, but anger made her voice crystal clear. 

“Nancy, I was only trying—”

“You said,” she breathed heavily. “You _promised_, when we got married, that you would never act like your father.” 

Bill shook his head, mouth gaping open. The white fuzz on the side of his vision was receding, leaving only shocking clarity and no words. “I didn’t mean… “

“Get out.”

Bill took a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s take a breather, and when we’ve all calmed down--”

“For fuck’s sake, Bill.” Nancy’s voice was soft and quivering, but she wasn’t one for cursing, and it stopped him dead in his tracks. “I need you to hear what I’m asking you. I want you to leave.”

Bill sputtered. “Leave?”

“Just get out,” she said firmly. “I can’t deal with all this right now. I need you to get out of the house.” She wouldn’t look at him, one hand covering her eyes in a universal headache expression.

“Un… Until when?”

“Just-- later!” Nancy cried. “Go to work! Go talk to-- Wendy _Carr_, and Jim Barney! Go get _drunk_!” 

"What?" Bill felt cold. 

"Please stop making me say it Bill, and just listen to me for once," Nancy said. "I want you to leave this house and don't come back until this evening." She slumped against the wall, covering her eyes, not looking at him.

All that anger dried up, and everything that remained was so much worse. 

Bill left the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get better, I promise.
> 
> You can see Holden's [matchbox cars here.](https://yourbeauties.tumblr.com/post/190649836867/holdens-matchbox-cars)


	15. The Campus Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BSU team analyze a prisoner interview. Bill goes for a drink with Wendy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I told someone in the comments that there wouldn't be any interviews in this fic. I guess what i meant was there would be no "live" interviews, lol. Have a good old tape-listening session!

It was after lunchtime when he finally got to work. 

Wendy sat on Gregg’s desk, arms crossed. “Good afternoon, Bill.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he panted. “I’m here now.” 

“There’s a file on your desk,” said Gregg. “Melissa got a hit back on the cold cases.”

“Shit. Really?”

Gregg nodded glumly. “It’s as bad as the rest.” 

Bill put his briefcase down in his office. He didn’t close the door, very aware of Wendy still sitting on Gregg’s desk, waiting for him. 

Seventeen-year-old Dennis Woods, murdered in Takoma Park, Maryland. Another empty field in another up-and-coming DC suburb. Like Christopher Haddon, Dennis had been wearing his school’s letter jacket. He was on the track team-- a small, wiry kid. He looked younger than his age, in fact. Definitely not a quarterback. An easy target. 

He was murdered roughly a year ago. Months before Jeremy Adams.

If Bill had been in a sharper state of mind, he would have thought harder about that. He would have considered if Dennis Woods was the first victim-- like Craig and Jeremy, he had defensive wounds on his hands. Bill might have considered that the killer was something of a slow learner. 

But Bill couldn’t focus. He looked at those photos and saw all the other dead boys, and nothing new. His cheek kept smarting from Nancy’s slap. 

He left Dennis Woods in his office, and went back to the bullpen. 

Wendy was still sitting on Gregg’s desk. "Well, you got what you wanted," she said. "Jim Barney will be here next week.” 

Bill nodded. “That’s great.” 

"And we have the go-ahead to interview another agent," she went on. "And we're expanding our space.” 

“Okay. That’s good news.” 

"It's just more room in the basement," she said, still looking at him like, how did he get anything done in this place before she came along? 

“Well,” said Bill, “who needs natural light?" 

Gregg looked uncomfortable. He was fenced in by Wendy sitting on his desk on one side, and Bill standing next to him on the other. He cleared his throat. 

“You’ve got a tape ready to listen to?” asked Bill.

“It’s been ready since last week, Bill,” said Wendy. Her hair swished sharply as she got off the desk. Gregg gave Bill an apologetic look as he followed her, carrying the tape recorder. 

\--

“Campus Creep” Victor Galliano raped and murdered four girls in one month back in the early seventies. They were two sets of roommates who lived in student housing at the University of South Florida, where Galliano, then in his thirties, had been employed as a security guard for over ten years. The student housing complex had several buildings, some segregated by gender, some co-ed. The murders took place in the co-ed dorms, with boys right next door. 

What became a big topic of interest in the two days of interviews was Galliano's crimes before the murders. He fantasized about murder for several years. When he was arrested and interrogated, he admitted to doing a “dry run” a few months before the attacks. 

One of the girls living in a co-ed dorm-- she did not ultimately fall victim to murder-- was deeply disturbed one morning to find a pair of her panties lying on top of her dresser, with semen on them. She and her roommate had been asleep all night, and didn’t hear anything.

The girl complained to housing administration, who in turn questioned the security staff, but nobody could explain what happened, and nothing was done about it. It was widely assumed that this was a prank by one of the boys who lived in the co-ed dorm, or one of the girls’ boyfriends. The girls both said they were in bed sober and early-- it was a school night-- but this was met with skepticism by pretty much anyone who heard the story.

Galliano later admitted to raping two other girls shortly after this “dry run.” 

\--

`Smith: The night you masturbated on the panties… you went there with the intention of killing those girls. Why didn’t you go through with it?`

`Subject: I just realized it was stupid. In my daydreams, I could subdue both girls. But once I finally had the nerve to do it, I just realized how dumb it was. I couldn't subdue them both. I didn’t have any rope or anything. So I was standing there, watching them sleep; I was like, fuck, this isn't going to work. `

`Smith: That’s why when you did commit the murders, you brought rope?`

`Subject: Yeah, I had a whole kit. A better plan. Gag one of the girls, so when she wakes up she can’t scream. Tie her up. Get the other one. Put them together. `

`Carr: In that dry run, why did you risk getting caught by staying to masturbate? `

`Subject: I had so much energy, you know? I thought that was going to be the night. I was charged. So much pent-up... I needed to do something. I wanted to scare them. `

`Smith: How could you... perform in a situation like that? Being perfectly silent? `

`Subject: Man, that made it even better. [Unintelligible] the risk of getting caught? [Laughs]`

`Carr: Why did you kill pairs? `

`Subject: That was just always how I pictured it. I'm not sure why. [Unintelligible] a twin thing, you know? There aren't many twins in the world, though. But I noticed that on campus, when girls spent a lot of time together, sometimes they would become like sisters. Swap clothes, stuff like that. Do each other's hair. I could make do with that. `

`Smith: After you had your "dry run,” where you masturbated on the panties, you raped two girls off-campus. Separate occasions.`

`Subject: You could call those dry runs, too. I had this daydream where I'd rape and kill two girls at once, but I hadn't even done one thing to one girl, you know? Once I realized how dumb my plan was, I had to make a new one. `

`Smith: But it took a few months before you did it.`

`Subject: Yeah. I had to be careful, you know? So I stalked the girls, figured out which bars they would drink the most at, which paths they would take home that were quietest. Figured out which ones split off from their friends. I figured, even though what I really wanted was to get two girls together, I wouldn't go after anyone who was with their roommate. Not yet. I had to find someone who would be alone. Even better if they went out with friends who didn't live in student housing. It took a while, but that's what I found. `

`Smith: But then you did two rapes in one week. Isn't that reckless?`

`Subject: [Exhales] It was just such a rush. After that first one-- it was like a little taste of what I wanted. I had to really restrain myself from killing her. But once I'd done it I really had to do it again. After the second one, though, I knew I had to calm down. `

`Carr: The second rape victim, Dorothy MacLean. You left her in the bushes where you'd raped her, and then went right back to work.`

`Subject: Started my shift, actually. I was almost late.`

`Carr: You were at the gate house when she got back. She thought you were helping her. `

`Subject: Yes, ma’am. `

`Smith: Why did you risk doing it in such a short time frame? What if you were late to work? Why risk getting fired from that job?`

`[Pause]`

`Subject: I wanted to see her face. It was like... an experiment. I knew that, ultimately, I wanted to kill someone. But I thought, what would it be like to see her after, when she's still alive, and she doesn't know it's me? `

`Carr: And? What did it feel like to see her after?`

`Subject: [Pause] It didn't do anything for me. It was just-- whatever. I didn't care.`

`Carr: So it wasn't part of the fantasy for you? `

`Subject: No.`

`Smith: But you comforted her, and took her to the doctor.`

`Subject: Yeah, I just did that to throw off the scent. It wasn’t, like, fun or anything. It was stressful, man. A lot of work. `

`Carr: You led a campus safety workshop after that rape.`

`Subject: For the same reason. Like I said. It was a lot of work. `

`Carr: You really didn't get any pleasure out of the fear? It wasn't just Dorothy. Every woman was scared. They were already calling you the Campus Creep.`

`Subject: [Pause] I guess it was sort of fun. Mostly, when I finally did get to kill someone, I liked their fear when I was doing it. Especially how scared the second one got after I killed the first. I mean, nothing’s ever as good as you expect [Unintelligible.] With Dorothy, helping her afterwards and watching her cry… it just wasn't the same. It wasn't building up to anything. It was more like... A letdown. `

`Smith: A letdown.`

`Subject: Yeah. `

`Carr: But you wanted to scare those other two girls from the dry run, when you masturbated on the panties.`

`Subject: Yeah, because that was before. I don't know, I guess as I was doing it, I was fantasizing about going back to kill them. And like, I'd break in and they'd know I was the one who had jerked it while they were sleeping. It was still building up to something. I'd been building up to it for years.`

`Smith: Building up the fantasy? `

`Subject: Yeah. But also, the fear. In the girls.`

`Smith: How do you mean?`

`[Pause]`

`Subject: So this is all supposed to be anonymous or something, right? `

`Smith: None of this will be shared with the parole board. `

`[Pause]`

`Subject: I was surprised that nobody really questioned how easy it was for me to break into the dorm rooms. `

`Smith: In the trial, it was stated that you had access to a master key and you made a copy for yourself.`

`Subject: [Laughs] Yeah, but I knew every room in those buildings like the back of my hand. Even the mens-only dorm. [Unintelligible] in the reporting, somehow. They didn't start calling me the Campus Creep after I raped those two girls. I made the Campus Creep into a legend years ago. `

`Carr: What do you mean?`

`Subject: I’d been daydreaming about having two girls at my mercy since... well, forever. But I didn't do anything. I knew it was wrong. After I got that job-- and I guess you could argue that I took that job because I could have access to girls. You wouldn't be wrong. But at that point, I was still trying not to do it. I knew that once I crossed that line, I couldn't come back. The urge was just so strong. I thought, maybe there's a way to satisfy it that isn't so bad.`

`Carr: What did you do?`

`Subject: I started watching girls sleep in their room pretty early on. Around the first year mark. I would just go in there and watch them sleep. Sometimes I went in when they were showering-- Bunche House, they have single rooms with their own little bathrooms there. That was fun. I'd go in while she was in the shower, and I'd sit on her bed or look around. Get out before she was done. `

`Carr: You started this within a year of getting that job? `

`Subject: Yes, ma'am. The fun wore off soon enough. So I started... moving things. Just enough for them to be disturbed when they noticed. You could write it off as the cleaners, or another kid playing a prank. But just for that one moment, at least, they'd be freaked out. And then pretty soon after that, I started taking things. `

`Smith: Taking things? `

`Subject: Just little things that wouldn't be missed. A pen. A hair tie. Stuff like that. `

`Carr: And you only ever stole from the girls?`

`Subject: No, I stole from the boys, too. Just to see if I could do it. Let myself into a four-room one day-- they have a little living room setup. Four dudes all asleep while I'm creeping through their things. That was fun, but not the way it was fun with the girls. I think because if any of the guys caught me, they would be angry. But if a girl caught me, she would be scared. That’s what I liked about it. `

`Smith: If you only stole things that wouldn't be missed, how did the Campus Creep moniker come about?`

`Subject: Well, it's like I said. The novelty wore off. So I started stealing things they would miss. So they would know someone was in their private space without their permission. Panties at first. I only did that in the co-ed dorms, because then it's easy to blame it on the boys who lived there. I mean, they were doing panty raids and all that stupid bullshit, too. Or they would just think lost them in the laundry. From boys, I stole food or beer. I’d take entire cases of beer. They’d be confused, probably. But... I wanted the fear. If I could never really have girls at my mercy, I could at least-- well, creep them out. So I started taking stuff that involved… research. `

`Carr: What does that mean?`

`[Long pause]`

`Subject: I'd kind of stalk a girl for a while. Get into her room a couple times, get a sense of who she was. Then I'd take say-- a little teddy bear she had on her bed. A photo [Unintelligible]. Once, there was this European girl-- I took her passport. [Laughs] But guess what? I ended up putting it back. She probably didn't even miss it.`

`Smith: Really? Why? `

`Subject: Ah, it just wasn't as fun. Like, you notice your passport missing-- it's a big pain in the ass, sure. Maybe cause a panic. But it could've been the cleaners, you know, that would probably be everyone's first guess. Identity theft. Whatever. But taking a teddy bear your mom gave you? That's different. `

`Smith: What did you do with the items you stole?`

`Subject: I’d keep them for a time. Ultimately throw them out. Mostly because I didn’t want to get caught. `

`Smith: Did you ever… pleasure yourself with them?`

`Subject: Nah. But I did get a thrill out of throwing them out. That little teddy bear I mentioned-- I kept it for a long time, but then I threw it out. I liked thinking about it sitting on the bottom of the garbage can more than I liked having it, to be honest with you.`

`Carr: Were they all family items? Things from their childhood? `

`Subject: Not necessarily. It just had to be important. Like, I wouldn't take a movie ticket out of the trash. But this one girl put her ticket stubs up on the wall. I took some of those. It had to be something that was important enough to them to put on display.`

`Carr: Why?`

`Subject: Mostly, I wanted to scare them. So they had to notice it right away.`

`Carr: Mostly? `

`Subject: [Long pause] I wanted to take something they would know was missing, that they could never replace. `

`Carr: The same way you wanted to take someone's life?`

`Subject: Ultimately, yeah. I guess. You're pretty bright, Doc. `

`Smith: Was the theft-- had you done that before? As a kid? `

`Subject: Oh, yeah. You had to be careful, though. When I was a kid. `

`Smith: How do you mean?`

`Subject: Well, Mom never wanted us to have anything. We weren’t that poor. She could've given us stuff. She just didn't want to. Mostly it was because we didn’t deserve it. Well, me, anyway.`

`Carr: You were the oldest. You had two little sisters. `

`Subject: Yeah. Yeah. My therapist wanted to talk a lot about that, too. `

`Carr: Were they twins?`

`Subject: No. [Laughs] `

`Carr: Did you ever have sexual feelings for your sisters?`

`Subject: No, Jesus. Gross. Look, they’re not part of this. I never did anything to them. `

`Carr: But your mother treated them differently than you.`

`Subject: Yeah. I mean... [Exhales] It wasn't that bad. Mom just liked my sisters better than me. I mean, they were sweet girls and I was… She'd buy them toys and stuff. I never got toys. Not for long, anyway. I remember having toys when I was little, before my dad left. But if I pissed Mom off, she'd throw them out. She never did that to my sisters, even when she was pissed at them. I think she was mad at me because of Dad. She was nice sometimes. Once I said I wanted to be an artist, so she got me this box of coloured pencils. But then like, a week later she said art was for sissies, and she threw out my pencils. Ripped up my drawings. [Unintelligible]`

`Smith: When did you start stealing?`

`Subject: Oh, I guess around the same time. I don't think that was the same as what I was doing as the Campus Creep though, not really. I just-- I mean, you're ten, you want some candy, right? You want some toys. So I learned how to shoplift. But that wasn't about taking something away from someone else. I didn't care about that. It's just taking something without paying for it. If I had money, I would’ve bought it. `

`Smith: Did you ever get caught?`

`Subject: [Long pause] Not by shopkeepers. And I never got caught for the Campus Creep stuff, either. If I hadn't killed those girls, I would've never gotten caught. I could've just kept raping them, probably. But that's not what I wanted. [Unintelligible] it was stupid to kill girls where I worked. I get that a lot. Don't shit where you eat, right? I knew that. That's why I did them so close together. Once it started, I knew it wouldn't last long. I daydreamed about it for so long, and I couldn't... I just couldn't help it anymore.`

`Smith: You stole from students in an effort to... stave off these urges?`

`Subject: Yeah, pretty much. I mean, ten years. Think about it. Think about spending ten years daydreaming about something you really want, and never doing it. I think I lasted as long as anyone could. `

`[Pause]`

`Carr: You said when you were a child, you never got caught stealing by shopkeepers. Did you get caught by someone else?`

`Subject: Yeah. My mom. [Clears throat] I had stolen some candy. You know, those sour keys. I gave some to my sisters. She was nicer to my sisters, but none of us were allowed candy. Like, we'd go around to church or whatever and some old people would give us candy, and we'd say thank you, and Mom would say thank you, and then we'd turn around and Mom would make us give her the candy, and she'd throw it out. `

`Smith: Why didn't she just let you have it? `

`Subject: I don’t know. She just didn’t. So, I've stolen these sour keys and like-- fuck, you know, when you deprive a kid of something, they're going to go a little crazy on it later. I saw it all the time on campus. The well-adjusted kids who had already snuck some liquor or smoked a joint, they did just fine. It was the kids who had never had a day of freedom that went wild with drinking and sex, passing out in the bushes and getting alcohol poisoning. `

`So my sisters and me, we're stuffing our faces with these sour keys, around the back of the house. Stupid timing. I think I was nine. Mom comes around. She just freaks out. She didn't even ask how we got the candy, which-- anyway, she assumed it was me, of course. Slaps the shit out of me, right in front of my sisters. Then she just... grabs me by the head, and shoves her fingers in my mouth, and pulls out the candy. Throws it in the dirt. My sisters are just watching me like... [Unintelligible] `

`[Long pause]`

`What kind of mom takes candy out of their child's mouth? Who the fuck does that? `

\-- 

“What a piece of shit,” said Bill. 

“He was actually quite polite,” said Wendy. “I think it was pretty successful. Especially compared to our last outing.”

“He’s certainly a talker,” agreed Bill. “And not an ounce of remorse.”

“I thought it was pretty telling how he insisted his little sisters didn’t factor into his fantasy at all,” said Gregg. “He was pretty defensive about it.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Bill looked over at Wendy. “What do you make of that?” 

“It doesn’t jump out at me. He was so blunt about everything he’s done. Why lie about lusting after his sisters?”

“There has to be a line somewhere,” said Gregg. “And he was the oldest. The oldest child is supposed to be the protector.” 

Bill flipped through the pages of his transcript a little harder than necessary.

“He was a campus security guard. He was quite literally supposed to protect the girls in those dorms.” Wendy looked thoughtful. “And he did say he knew that murder was wrong. He was trying to avoid doing it as long as he could.” 

“Come on,” said Bill. “You can’t believe he actually felt that way. He was just planning. He was organized.” 

“He did sound like a good big brother, though,” said Gregg. “He called his sisters sweet, and gave them candy. He said his stealing was just about himself, but it wasn’t, since he shared with them.”

“And he was humiliated in front of them for it,” said Wendy. “Hmm. Maybe he resented that they couldn’t stand up for him? And that got sublimated into his violent fantasy?” 

Bill didn’t want to talk about the sister stuff anymore. “The person he _should’ve_ resented was his mom. That’s another for our pattern of domineering mothers. And the stealing. It’s obviously related.”

“That sour key story,” Gregg said, shaking his head. 

“She was supposed to provide for him. But she took away anything he had for himself. Or gave him gifts, and then took them away. It’s completely destabilizing.” Wendy crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, as much as she ever leaned. “Revisiting that pain on everyone else was how he coped with not being able to kill.”

“The only reason he couldn’t kill was because he was still planning it,” said Bill. “The stealing wasn’t like… nicotine gum, keeping him on the straight and narrow. It was part of the planning.” 

Gregg frowned. “I agree that he was incredibly organized. But then committing all his murders in the buildings where he works… I mean, half the students left after the first murder. Classes were cancelled. And then he just gets caught. It seems sloppy after a decade of planning.” 

After mentioning _nicotine gum_, Bill had been searching for his cigarettes in his jacket. He lit up. 

“The creeping and stealing is obviously predatory,” said Wendy. “I think the interesting question is if that kind of behaviour _always_ escalates.” She looked over at Bill. “I suppose you’d say yes, it does.”

Bill shrugged. “He said it himself. The novelty wore off. Maybe it started as a quote-unquote harmless hobby, but when you get sufficiently skilled at something, you start looking for new challenges.”

Gregg nodded thoughtfully. “My wife got bored with knitting, and then cross stitching, and now she’s onto quilting.” 

“You think people can change?” Bill asked, without quite thinking about it.

Wendy tilted her head. “People like Galliano? No, psychopaths can’t change. They can adapt--”

“Anybody,” Bill clarified. “If someone has, say, a bad habit.”

Wendy’s eyes flicked to Bill’s cigarette.

“Gregg’s wife is never _not_ going to be a crafter,” Bill continued. “She might get bored of one form and move to another, but she’s not going to change, is she?”

Wendy frowned. “That’s an interest, not a compulsion.”

“The desire to create something _is_ a compulsion. An urge. It just happens to be a positive one. I’m talking about undesirable urges.” 

Wendy frowned harder. 

“You’re born,” said Bill. “You get your genes from your parents. You learn how to be a person from your parents. Or whoever raises you. Then you get this brief window of time as a young adult where you can choose what you want to be. Do you think that’s it? Maybe by the time you’re thirty… maybe forty… you are who you are?” 

Wendy mulled that over. “Anecdotally, I’ve known people who have managed to change.”

“And professionally?” 

“Our area of study is fairly narrow,” Wendy said. “But no, that’s not a pattern I’ve noticed. And… personally, as well. I’ve known more people who fall back to their old ways than people who have truly changed.” 

“And the ones who did change?” asked Bill. “How’d they manage it?” 

“A lot of introspection and hard work,” Wendy said. She gave him a pointed look that he didn’t now how to read. “And a lot of therapy.” 

Bill ashed his cigarette. “What about you, Gregg?”

“Oh, I believe anyone can change, if they really want to,” said Gregg.

“Anything’s possible with prayer,” Bill said drily. 

Gregg smiled a timid little smile. “The church is more about repentance than transformation,” he said. “But I… choose to believe that people want to be better. I think if people truly are incapable of changing… then on some level, I question the value of what we’re doing here.”

Wendy straightened slightly, her hair swishing a little. It was her version of looking totally shocked. “Pardon me, but what exactly do you think is the purpose of this study?” 

“No, of course, I see the value in identifying commonalities in serial murderers, and potentially catching them before they hurt anyone.” Gregg faced Wendy directly. “But if we can’t help them change… then to what end? I happen to know that you find the death penalty as distasteful as I do, even under normal circumstances. So what do we do with these people?” 

_A lobotomy_. That’s what Kemper had suggested. Bill felt a pressure settling on the top of his head. He felt it weighing him down. 

Wendy looked like she was biting her tongue a little bit. Choosing her words. “Psychopathy is an inborn trait,” she said. “Like homosexuality. It can’t be changed.” 

“I understand that,” Gregg nodded. “But humans have free will. Barring a very extreme mental illness, everything you do is your own choice. It might be a harder, or more limited set of choices due to your condition. But you can still choose the right thing.” 

Wendy looked away, reminding Bill a little of Holden’s sulking.

“You’re still talking about behaviour,” said Bill. “It sounds like the underlying urges can’t be treated.”

Gregg looked troubled. “I just can’t accept the absolute. People recover from addiction. I know it’s not a high success rate, but it’s possible.”

Bill nodded at the tape recorder. “So you think Galliano’s an addict?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Gregg. “But the most striking thing for me is that he said he knew it was wrong, and tried not to act on it. He wanted to be better, and if he had better tools, maybe—”

“The only reason he held back,” said Bill, “is because he knew, given the nature of his fantasy, that he would get caught very fast.”

“I’ll tell you why psychopaths can’t change,” Wendy announced. “If you have a normal man with a normal, but undesirable urge… let’s say gambling. It affects his work, it affects his family. He gets help. Prayer, therapy, whatever it is. He is able to recognize that he needs help because, since he is not a psychopath or a narcissist, he can recognize that he is not the foremost expert about his problem. That’s first.”

“All right,” Gregg accepted. 

“Secondly, because he is capable of empathy and respect for other human beings, he can recognize that his gambling is hurting other people. This actually means something to him. Addiction makes people into narcissists when satisfying the addiction becomes more important to them than the people they love. If our gambler hasn’t reached that point, and he still loves others, he is able to see that his actions hurt them. And hurting someone he loves hurts _him_.”

Bill shifted uncomfortably. “So all Galliano needed was the love of a good woman?” 

“No, Bill,” Wendy said tersely. “The absolute inanity of that trope aside, it wouldn’t have mattered. _He_ has to be capable of loving someone, which he isn’t. Which brings me to my third point. I’m of the opinion that psychopaths and narcissists can’t love themselves.” 

Bill frowned. “Even narcissists?” 

“Narcissists don’t love themselves to excess,” she said. “They just can’t think of anything _but_ themselves. It actually sounds very lonely to me.” 

“Narcissus _died_ staring at his own reflection,” Gregg said thoughtfully. “It was a curse.” 

“Galliano knew he would eventually get caught,” Wendy said. “He knew he would one day act on his urges, and it would all be over. If he truly loved himself, I don’t think he would have accepted that as an inevitability.”

Bill was still frowning. “So you’re saying that the key to change… is love.” 

Gregg brightened. “Well, I would certainly agree with that.” 

Wendy looked more conflicted. “Humans are social animals, which is why empathy exists. It’s for survival of the species. Psychopaths are anomalies. I think the capacity to truly change is related to the ability to see oneself in the context of a larger group. And by extension… the capacity to love. And I suppose when applied, in a broad sense, most people _can_ change, but very few actually do.” 

“Okay,” said Bill. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. Watched tendrils of smoke uncurl.

“Well, this was an interesting debate,” said Wendy. “It was certainly a fruitful interview. We should try to see him again sometime.” She stood, picking up her notepad. 

“I’ll get it on the books,” said Gregg. 

Bill followed Wendy back to her office. “Hey. You doing anything after work? You want to get a drink?” 

Wendy stared at him, like she was trying to figure out his angle. 

“My treat,” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “Not that Marine bar, though. I’m a little tired of military types right now.”

“You know a place?”

“Sure,” she said. “Follow me.”

\-- 

Bill followed Wendy to a bar by UMW, not far from home. As he was driving, he realized he had no idea where Wendy lived. 

The bar was like Wendy-- academic, classy, with the appearance of delicacy. Bill felt he stuck out like a sore thumb. But they had whiskey, so who’s counting.

He lit another cigarette and stared down at the two fingers the waiter had brought, while Wendy sipped at her wine and waited for him to talk.

“Well, I’m glad I came all the way out here for a drink with you,” she said drily, after a few minutes of silence.

“Sorry,” Bill sighed. “I know I haven’t been… very present at work lately.” 

Wendy tilted her head at him. “You’ve been pulled in too many directions,” she said. 

“I know,” said Bill. “But Jim’s going to be here, soon. And he’s eager to do interviews.”

“It’s not just that,” said Wendy. “Is this about the Quarterbacks?”

Bill shook his head.

“It’s okay to delegate more if you have to,” said Wendy. “I know Calvin and Melissa are itching to get out in the field.” 

“They don’t have the experience. They wouldn’t be able to help.” Bill sighed. “It’s not the Quarterbacks. I’m just-- I’m sorry I haven’t been very reliable. That’s going to end.” 

Wendy was quiet for a moment. Bill didn’t look up from his drink.

“Where were you this morning?” she asked. “Is everything all right with… with Brandon?”

“It’s Brian,” he said. “He’s fine. He’s…” he cut himself off from saying _he’s great_. “It’s been an adjustment. How was it going out of town with Gregg? It looked like he got under your skin a little today.”

Wendy narrowed her eyes. “It’s— he’s fine. He didn’t get under my skin.” 

“He’s pretty pliable,” said Bill. “If you lay down the law, he’ll roll right over.”

“It’s fine, Bill. Why did you miss work this morning? Is everything all right with Nancy?” When Bill sighed, Wendy leaned forward. “Bill, do you have someone to talk to?”

Bill scowled at her. “Talk to about what?”

“About… whatever it is you’re clearly not comfortable talking to me about. Because, frankly, I’m not sure I _want_ you to talk to me about it.” 

Bill ashed his cigarette. Finished his drink. Gestured to the waiter to bring him another two fingers. “This stuff you were saying about escalation. About, uh, the creeping and stealing being inherently predatory.”

“Yes?” 

“Do you think it’s ever _not_ predatory?” Bill asked. “Do you think it could ever be harmless?”

Wendy looked surprised. “No… I think even at its most harmless, it’s still inherently predatory. Galliano caused suffering for others, even on a small scale, just to satisfy his ego. It shows how he regards other people.” 

“Sure,” Bill nodded. “But you asked if that kind of predatory behaviour always escalated. Do you think there’s ever cases where it doesn’t?” 

Wendy blinked. “I couldn’t begin to formulate a theory about that at this stage,” she said. “Do you want my subjective opinion? Yes, I think there’s a huge amount of people in the world who enjoy inflicting small, hard to measure amounts of grief on others, who don’t escalate to greater violence.” 

“Low-level shittery,” Bill muttered.

Wendy chuckled. “If you like.” She finished her wine, and likewise gestured at the waiter. He brought both their drinks. 

“I keep thinking about that teddy bear,” said Bill. “Do you think, in a case like that-- do you think it fucked her up? That girl?” 

“The girl with the teddy bear?” Wendy blinked again. “I don’t think we could speculate about that. It would depend on a lot of things.” 

“Worst case scenario,” said Bill.

Wendy looked thoughtful. “It’s hard to imagine what a worst case scenario could be. I think something could always come along and make it worse. Other girls ended up murdered.”

“Her mother’s gone,” said Bill. “She gave her that teddy bear. It’s all she has to remind her. It’s the only family she has left. And it disappears, and she _knows_ the fucking Campus Creep took it. And she can’t do anything about it.”

Wendy took a long drink of her wine, looking wide-eyed at him. “Yes, Bill. I suppose that would fuck her up.”

Bill rubbed at his face. “We’ve been fostering a teenager,” he said. “He was living with Brian, and… I guess the last foster home fell apart, so they asked us to take him.”

“Oh,” Wendy blinked. “All right.” 

“Holden-- he’s not a bad kid,” said Bill. “But we didn’t sign up for a teenager. It was supposed to be temporary. The case worker said he would be able to move out by now. But then it turned out someone was lying or mistaken about his age, so we’re stuck with him until next year, probably.” 

“Okay,” said Wendy.

“We’ve had to take him to the hospital twice already,” said Bill, leaving out how the first time was his own fault. “He’s a _complete_ smart alec. And he’s fucking weird. He creeps me out. He’s up to something, and I can’t get a read on it.”

“But he’s not a bad kid,” said Wendy.

Bill sighed. “He’s really not. At least, I thought he wasn’t. Yesterday, his class took a field trip to DC. He and this girl wandered off to 14th and I Street. Almost missed the bus back. He spent all day talking to strange men outside the Butterfly Club. And he won’t tell us _why_.”

Wendy looked concerned. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen.”

“How long has he been in foster care?” 

“Since he was ten. His mother abandoned him.”

“Oh.” Wendy looked about as sympathetic as it was possible for her to look. “So you were the-- second foster family he lived with?”

Bill finished his cigarette. Stubbed it out in the ashtray. “We’re the fifth family he’s lived with.”

Wendy’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said. “I can’t imagine.” 

“Imagine what?”

She shook her head. “I thought moving cities after the holidays was stressful. But spending your formative years-- right after you’ve been rejected by your mother? Moving families every year, never being able to put down any roots. Never having a space of your own. And if you do, knowing it could be taken away at any moment. That’s chaotic. It’s a pure survival situation. He must be very confused right now.” 

“You think that justifies wandering off to the red light district?”

“No,” she said. “But I don’t think you can expect him to execute good judgment. You can’t really expect any sixteen-year-old to execute good judgment, but especially not one in his position. Does he have someone to talk to?”

“You mean a therapist? Yeah, he does.”

“Well, that’s good.” She tilted her head. “What about you? What kind of support do you and Nancy get for this?” 

Bill shrugged. “I mean, when we adopted Brian we had all those orientations, and home visits, and interviews.”

“But what about for-- what’s this kid’s name? The teenager?”

“Holden. No, nothing for him.”

Wendy looked alarmed. 

“There’s a case worker that I guess we’re supposed to be talking to more often,” Bill amended.

“Okay. So, that’s what you were doing this morning? Dealing with the field trip?”

“Yeah. We had to go see his principal. He’s suspended for two weeks, which is another thing. Nancy’s head’s about ready to explode.”

Wendy made a sympathetic little noise. 

“And then…” Bill decided not to tell Wendy about Holden’s super secret death book. “Holden has these two little Matchbox cars. He takes them with him wherever he goes. He keeps them in a plastic bag with his birth certificate.” 

Wendy nodded. “They’re probably all he had when he entered foster care.”

Bill sighed. “Yeah, I guess. So we go to see his principal, and his teacher. And they say they searched his bag, because of their policy. When they give the bag back, Holden says one of his Matchbox cars is gone. And Wendy, he…” Bill shook his head. “He had a breakdown like I’ve never seen before.”

Wendy made another one of those sympathetic little noises.

“And I didn’t handle it well,” said Bill. “And Nancy’s… she hasn’t been this upset with me in years. I don’t know.”

“What happened to the Matchbox car?” Wendy furrowed her brow, like she didn’t understand why Bill was talking about Nancy.

“I have no idea,” said Bill. “The teacher said Holden must’ve lost it. But Holden thinks one of them took it.”

“Them? The teacher or the principal?”

“I guess so. Someone at school, anyway. But it couldn’t have been another kid. Holden never lets that bag out of his sight.” 

Wendy was quiet a moment. “Well, do you think Holden lost it?” 

Bill mulled it over. “I’ve only known Holden three months. But… he’s pretty careful.” 

“He’s had five families in as many years and managed to hang onto it,” she said.

“Yeah. Good point.” 

Wendy swirled her wine in her glass. “Who would do something like that?” she wondered. “Galliano was made to feel powerless by his mother. On some level, he resented his sisters for getting better treatment than him.”

Bill nodded. “He got a job looking after younger women. And boys.”

“But the women were the attraction,” said Wendy. “He transferred that resentment to them, until he could symbolically exercise power over his sisters’ lives by taking theirs. So this is… someone who resents high school students. Or at least, something that high school students symbolize to them.”

“Or something that Holden symbolizes to them,” Bill mused.

Wendy nodded slowly. “Maybe this person has other stressors. Exercising control over a weaker being makes them feel stronger. More powerful. Maybe they’ve been… overlooked in some way? Does that sound like either of them?”

Bill shrugged.

Wendy tilted her head. “I’m beginning to see how our study isn’t quite the panacea for law enforcement the LEAA wants it to be.”

Bill huffed a laugh. 

“But if Holden didn’t lose his Matchbox car,” said Wendy. “Then he probably feels like that girl with the teddy bear.”

“Yeah,” sighed Bill. “I know.” He looked down at the rest of his whiskey. Downed it in one go.

—

It was late when he got home. The house was quiet. There was a plate of dinner for him in the fridge, but he didn’t feel like eating. 

He checked the locks on all the doors. He looked in on Brian, illuminated by the soft glow of his nightlight, sleeping soundly, clutching his little stuffed rabbit. 

The light was on in the master bedroom. Bill knocked gently, and cracked the door open.

Nancy sat up in bed, her hair under a silk cap, her face shiny with beauty creams. She didn’t look up from her novel. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Just letting you know I got in. Thanks for saving me some dinner.”

“Sure,” she said. She turned a page in her book. 

“Uh… you want me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

“Do whatever you want, Bill,” said Nancy.

Bill closed the bedroom door, and tiptoed back down the hall. 

There was no light under Holden’s door. Even though he’d checked all the locks, Bill had a sneaking feeling. He often got that feeling after interviews, like he had to check and double check that everything was okay.

He gently opened Holden’s door.

A shaft of light fell across the bed. Holden was curled up on his side, back to the door. In contrast to the way he’d sprawled out after his drugged-up volleyball misadventure, Holden was stiff and still. The blankets around him were barely disturbed, like someone had draped them across a statue of a boy. 

Bill thought Holden must be awake. His breathing was too shallow to be anything but awake. He was pretending to sleep. 

Bill closed the door.

\--

He slept on the couch that night, and dreamed about Captain America. He hadn’t had that dream in years.

When Bill was about nine, when his father was at war, his mother would give him pennies for doing chores. He’d save them up, and buy himself Captain America comics. They were the only things he had for himself. Everyone was so poor back then. He loved those stupid comics. His mother told him to keep them in his dresser, to keep them safe. She taught him how to take care of the things he loved. 

When Dad came home from the war, he was different. He barely hugged Bill, or touched him, or looked at him. One morning Bill opened his dresser and his Captain Americas were gone. He asked his father about them, and Dad acted like he didn’t know what Bill was talking about. Later, Bill found his comics, torn and crumpled, sitting in the trash. 

The next time he saw him, Bill puked all over his dad’s shoes. Almost forty years later, he still had no idea why he did that. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t happy. 

The dream usually consisted of discovering that his Captain Americas were gone, looking in the trash, and then puking. Thankfully, he’d wake up at the puking part. 

Usually, when Bill had this dream, it wasn’t actually the Captain Americas in the trash. It was often something else. 

This time, it was a teddy bear. 

Bill woke early, before dawn, and couldn’t get back to sleep.


	16. The Matchbox Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill solves an urgent mystery.

On Wednesday morning, Bill left the house before anyone else woke up. He ate breakfast at a diner, and then just sat there until his coffee went cold.

Before he was quite certain of what he was going to do, he found himself at James Monroe High. The flag fluttered in a strong breeze. Nobody was outside. Classes had already started. 

He asked the secretary if it was possible to speak to Mrs. Reid. 

"She has her homeroom class right now," said the secretary, a pretty young black woman with natural curls and large hoop earrings. "But she has a spare after that. You can see if she's free to talk then."

“Okay,” said Bill, signing into the visitor book. “Hey, can I ask you something? Yesterday, my kid Holden— Holden Ford. We came in for a meeting with the principal.”

“Yes, I remember,” the secretary smiled at him like _of course I remember that fiasco._

“They searched Holden’s backpack,” said Bill. “Now, do you happen to know the procedure for that? Did Holden give his bag to you, or…?”

“Oh, no,” said the secretary. “They wouldn’t ask support staff to do something like that. They had the kids wait outside the principal’s office while they checked their bags.”

“So it was just the principal and Mrs. Reid who were looking in the bags?”

“That’s right.” 

“Okay, thanks. I was just curious.”

“Professional curiosity, I get it. You’re in law enforcement, right?”

Bill put on a surprised-looking face, even though his haircut and his coat and his body language obviously gave it away. “That’s right.”

The secretary beamed at him. “I figured. We have lots of law enforcement parents.” She gave him directions to Mrs. Reid’s classroom, and asked him to stay nearby or wait outside until the bell rang.

Homeroom was only supposed to take fifteen more minutes. Bill went out for a cigarette.

As he was leaning against the brick wall, smoking and feeling the sting of Nancy's hand on his cheek, a very flashy red car pulled up and parked in an empty teacher’s spot right in front of the school. 

A greasy-haired boy about Holden's age got out, scowling. A youngish dad— thirties, maybe— got out of the car, too, and called out over the top.

“This is the last time I’m rushing your ass over here like this.” 

"Yeah, sure," the boy grumbled. He ran into the school without even glancing at Bill.

The dad looked at Bill and shook his head. “He sleeps late, and somehow that's my fault. I said he should walk, but his mom insists I drive him. How does that teach him a lesson?”

Bill smirked. “Some moms are soft.” 

"His sisters managed to catch their bus,” the guy continued to complain. “I don't know why they didn’t make sure he was up. I guess they don't want to deal with his shit any more than I do."

Bill shrugged. 

"Hey," said the dad. "Can I bum one off you?" 

Bill nodded him over, got out another cigarette. Gave the guy a light.

"Thanks. Wife wants me to quit. It's been killing me."

"I can imagine," said Bill. "And with-- how many kids? Three?"

The dad made an exasperated face, took a long drag. "Five." 

"Five?!" Bill tried not to react too strongly, but he couldn't help it.

The dad nodded. "Catholic," he said. "Started early. Bobby there's the second. Got one older boy, then three younger girls."

"That's quite a crowd," said Bill.

"Yeah. If I had known now... well, I wouldn't have started so early." He barked a bitter little laugh. "Your kid go here, too?" 

"Yeah," said Bill. "But he's suspended right now. I'm trying to talk to his teacher about it."

"Suspended? What'd he do?"

Bill shrugged. "Stupid shit." 

The dad laughed. "Yeah, well. Boys will be boys. I can't tell you the stupid shit mine get up to."

Bill nodded. He looked down the parking lot, out at the quiet suburban streets. His cigarette was almost finished. But the bell hadn't rung yet. He sighed.

The dad held out a hand. "Thanks for the smoke, pal. Scott Morris."

"Bill Tench." Bill shook his hand.

"You live around here, Bill?" 

Bill nodded. "About twenty minutes drive." 

"You got any other kids?" 

"A little boy. He's four."

"Ah," Scott Morris grinned. “But you’re not near an elementary school, are you?”

"No," said Bill. "We've been there for years. When we moved in, schools weren't the biggest priority."

“They’re building an elementary in Spotsvylania soon. A bunch of new developments going up. I can get you in the ground floor there, so to speak. Walking distance to the new elementary." Scott rummaged through his coat. "It's still in James Monroe's catchment area, so it won't make a difference to your older boy." 

He handed Bill his card. _Scott Morris Realty_ in fairly obnoxious red-white-and-blue design.

"We're not looking to move," said Bill. 

"Keep it," said Scott. "Think about it. If you moved in years ago, your place is probably full of asbestos. You've heard of asbestos, right?"

"Yeah." Bill dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. "I've heard of asbestos." 

“That stuff kills, man. And you’ve got a four year old. These new places are all clean. Different fibres. Way safer. And I could take the old place off your hands and get rid of the asbestos, too. You could sell it, or even rent it out. Investment properties are really the place to be looking, these days. No new frontiers, after all." He gave Bill a very charming smile. 

Bill had to hand it to Scott Morris. This early in the morning, after driving his slacker kid to school, chatting up a perfect stranger like it was nothing at all.

The bell rang.

"I'll think about it," said Bill. "Thanks." 

\--

After the crush of students in the hallways died down, Bill made his way to Mrs. Reid's classroom. He heard her talking to someone in there, so he hung back from the doorway.

"Are you sure you sent the letter on time?” a young girl asked.

“Yes, I’m sure I did," said Mrs. Reid. "And I wrote you a glowing recommendation. I honestly don't know what happened." 

The girl was quiet for a moment, then sniffled sadly. "I worked so hard on my application. And you said my essay was perfect." 

"I thought it _was_ perfect. And your grades are certainly good enough... I think you just weren't what they're looking for, sweetheart. It was probably the interview. You know we've talked before about your appearance, and how you speak to adults."

The girl mumbled something.

“We don’t always get what we want, do we?” Mrs. Reid went on. “I’m sorry. I was really rooting for you. But it’s just one summer placement, Debbie.” 

_Debbie?_ thought Bill. _Holden's Debbie?_

"Okay," Debbie finally conceded, though she still sounded very disappointed. "Thanks anyway, Mrs. Reid."

"Of course, sweetheart.” 

When Debbie stepped out of the classroom, Bill thought, _Oh God, I hope that's not Holden's Debbie._

Debbie was teeny tiny, with long dark hair that she'd shaved on both sides of her head, creating a kind of overgrown Mohican. It gave her a very scraggly look that for some reason made Bill think of the word _post-nuclear_. She wore a too-big leather jacket covered in patches, atop a ripped white shirt with a bullseye design on it. She had jean shorts on over knee-length purple tights, and big black boots. She had thick black eye makeup, and piercings in both ears, but not on the normal part of the ear-- up on the outside edges. Bill didn’t think they could be real piercings. They looked painful, and what mother would allow that? 

Debbie paused in the doorway and gave Bill a cynical up-and-down glance. Despite all the accoutrements, she looked about twelve damn years old. 

After a few seconds of rather awkward eye contact, Debbie flipped her hair over her shoulder and walked off down the hall.

In the classroom, Mrs. Reid wiped off her chalkboard. She had the exact same hairdo as the day before, and a similar floral dress. 

"Mrs. Reid?" Bill knocked on the doorway.

If she was surprised to see him, she didn't show it. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Tench. How are you?" 

"I'm well, thank you. Do you have a moment to chat?" He came into the room, took a quick glance around. Pretty typical stuff. A poster about the constitution, a poster of George Washington, some other historical figures that looked vaguely familiar but that he didn't recognize. 

Mrs. Reid followed him with her eyes, smiling blandly. "I always have a moment for concerned parents," she said.

“Great. About Holden--" 

"Mr. Tench, I'm afraid the suspension is school policy."

Bill broke into a grin. "No, no, I understand. And I agree with the suspension. It's not about that."

"All right," she stiffened a little, looking confused. 

"I wanted to come here and apologize in person," said Bill. "The way Holden behaved was completely out of line. And I didn't handle it well, either. I should've put a stop to it."

She nodded, still frowning. "Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Tench." 

“I take full responsibility for my part,” said Bill. “I should’ve been paying him more attention, and not just… taking his word for it. I don’t know why I thought I could trust him. I guess… he’d been having such a hard time before he came to live with us, and I wanted to go easy on him.” 

Mrs. Reid’s face softened.

“Believe me,” Bill went on. “If I knew he’d freak about his stupid Matchbox cars like that, I would’ve put my foot down about them. He shouldn’t have had them at school to begin with.” 

Mrs. Reid nodded. “I’m glad you think so, Mr. Tench.” 

“And sixteen’s too old for toy cars. I don't know about you, but when I was Holden's age, I was just happy to go to bed with a full stomach.” 

Finally, Mrs. Reid allowed a small smile. "Yes, children today really do have it easy, don’t they?”

"They're so entitled," said Bill, finding a chair at the edge of the classroom. "I mean, on the one hand, it's great-- you want them to have it better than you did."

"Of course," said Mrs. Reid.

"But there's so _much stuff_.” Bill put the chair in front of Mrs. Reid’s desk, and sat. “Our four-year-old has more toy trucks and blocks than I thought it was possible for one kid to have. And he freaks out when you take something away, too." 

"It's a real shame," said Mrs. Reid. "I worry about this generation, actually. They don't know what it's like to go without. I think a little deprivation builds character."

"I agree," said Bill.

"Well, I'm happy to hear that." Her smile got a little bigger. She sat behind her desk. “When I was sixteen, I was already engaged and getting ready to run my own household. I certainly wasn’t fixated on silly little toys.”

“Me neither,” said Bill. “As soon as I was old enough to work, I was contributing.”

Mrs. Reid nodded, smiling a pleased little smile.

“School was training for work, that’s what my father said,” Bill continued. “So at school, you dressed properly, you minded your Ps and Qs, and you respected your elders.”

“Hear, hear,” Mrs. Reid broke into a sunny grin. “And you didn’t complain if you got smacked with a ruler.”

Bill made an exaggerated _you’re not kidding_ kind of face. “I wouldn’t have dreamed about talking to my father the way Holden talks to me. I think the other foster families spoiled him. It’s a shame, because he’s so smart. He’s got so much wasted potential.”

Mrs. Reid shook her head. “These kids really are growing up far too soft.”

Bill tried to look thoughtful. “You know, when I was young— younger than Holden, but still too old for it— I was obsessed with these superhero comics.” He spun a story, even though his stomach started to hurt while he did it. “My father got annoyed. I was spending time on those comics when I should have been doing chores. So one day, he took them away from me. Said it was time I _threw away childish things._” He swallowed hard, tried not to make it visible. “It was the best thing he ever did for me.”

Mrs. Reid beamed proudly. “He sounds wonderful. I can tell you take after him.”

Bill tried to smile, tried not to grit his teeth. “Well, I sure hope so.”

She tilted her head. “Mr. Tench, you remind me so much of my oldest brother.”

“Really?” Bill tried to look flattered.

“Yes. My brother Stephen. He was very responsible, even when he was little. Always looking after others.” She paused, her smile fading a little. “Tell me, Mr. Tench, did you serve?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Korea.”

Mrs. Reid beamed again. “That’s what reminded me of Stephen. Were you volunteer?”

Bill nodded. “I was an able-bodied American man. My father taught me that it was my responsibility to protect others.” 

“Was he a military man, too?”

Bill let himself smile slightly, drop his gaze. “Yeah, he was in Europe.” 

Mrs. Reid made a soft little noise. “So was Stephen. He died there.”

Bill looked up, furrowing his brow.

“I lost three brothers in that war, in fact,” she said. “One in Italy. One in France. And one at Iwo Jima.” Her voice got a little tight towards the end, and she looked away haughtily. “None of them lived to see 21.” 

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” Bill said, truthfully. He cleared his throat. “I lost my little brother in Vietnam,” he said, half-truthfully.

Mrs. Reid looked at him like he was a lost puppy. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “That’s the burden of our generation, isn’t it? We were the ones who gave up everything.”

Bill nodded. He felt like he was wearing every year of his age right on his face. 

“And these kids, with the entire world on a silver platter.” Mrs. Reid shook her head. “They take it all for granted. The way they speak to me sometimes. And the _clothes_. Half the boys have long hair. Half the girls are on… _birth control_ pills.”

Bill snorted in dismay, and mirrored her head shake. 

“That’s not what my brothers died for,” Mrs. Reid said wistfully. 

Bill frowned. “That must’ve been really hard on your parents,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “My mother was absolutely devastated. She doted on those boys, they were her pride and joy. When I came along, I was just another set of hands to help in the kitchen. I spent my entire life taking care of my brothers and making sure they were well fed, their shirts were ironed. Mother and I even ate last, after Father and the boys.” Mrs. Reid paused, and seemed to remember herself. She patted her hair and sniffed. “But I didn’t mind, of course. It’s a woman’s burden and privilege to look after men.”

Bill made himself chuckle. “Wish my wife felt the same way.” He leaned in a little, furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “It must be hard, though… how do I put this. You’re here, and if you don’t mind my saying, you’ve obviously been teaching for quite some time. But the principal seems kind of…”

Mrs. Reid pursed her lips. “Mr. McNarland is very qualified. And he loves the children.” 

Bill tilted his head in concession. “But I wonder how much he’d be able to get done without you there. I mean… you were the one in charge of that meeting yesterday.” 

She paused. “He’s a bit… looser with discipline than I would like. The school board chose him in an attempt to be more _progressive._”

“Yeah, I noticed your secretary is kind of…” he made a vague hand gesture representing the secretary’s Afro hairstyle. 

Mrs. Reid’s eyes widened slightly. “Well, far be it for me to say about another woman’s hair, but… it just looks dirty. Mr. McNarland loves her, though. The old principal would never have allowed it. He was much more traditional. I liked him quite a bit.”

“How does that work?” asked Bill. “How do they pick a new principal?”

“Oh, it’s like any other job. A position comes up and you apply for it.” She hesitated a moment. “Of course, I wouldn’t put myself into consideration for that, since I like being on the front lines, so to speak. I like James Monroe, and usually principals are sent to different schools.”

Bill balked. “He didn’t even teach at this school before he was principal?” 

Mrs. Reid pursed her lips. “No,” she said.

“Well, forgive me for saying so, but I think they missed out on a real gem by not just offering you the job first.”

Mrs. Reid smiled bashfully. “Thank you, Mr. Tench. I’m very happy in my role, but that is gratifying to hear. And… I’m sorry about Holden’s suspension. I know that won’t be easy on your wife.”

Bill sighed. “Yeah. But what are you going to do?” 

Mrs. Reid shook her head again. “I should have kept a closer eye on him and Cheryl during that field trip. Now that I’ve had some more time to think about it, I can say that I bear some responsibility. Holden is very special, and he needs lot of attention.”

Bill tried not to grit his teeth. “Yeah, I’m coming to understand that.” 

“How was it when you got home yesterday?” she asked. “Did he calm down after his… outburst here? Or was he still upset?” She gazed at him guilelessly.

_This fucking bitch,_ thought Bill. “He was still upset. Had to send him to his room. Things are pretty tense right now.” 

Mrs. Reid nodded sympathetically. “He is a very sensitive boy. But the world is not kind to sensitive boys. It’s better he learns that now.”

“I agree,” said Bill.

“This is a good lesson for him,” she said, straightening up and moving some papers on her desk. Signalling that she thought the conversation was over, and Bill should leave. “I’m sorry it came at such a cost, but now he knows not to take things for granted.” 

“Yeah,” Bill said, dragging out the last vowel. He leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms. Watched her realize he wasn’t leaving.

She smiled at him smugly. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Mr. Tench?” 

“Yes,” said Bill. “The thing about Holden is that he’s incredibly organized. More organized than I am.”

Mrs. Reid’s smile got a little harder. “Even the most organized child loses things sometimes, Mr. Tench.”

“Sure,” Bill conceded. “But I live with Holden. He’s meticulous. You should see our kitchen when he cleans up, it’s spotless. He irons his own clothes. You ever met a kid who did that? And he never, ever takes those Matchbox cars out of that plastic bag unless he’s in his room.” 

Mrs. Reid’s hard smile took on a sharp edge. “I’m sure this is very frustrating for him, then. But it's still not appropriate for him to shout, or use the language he used, or try to destroy school property. Sometimes things get lost. It’s a fact of life.”

Bill met her hard grin with one of his own. “Is it, though?” 

Mrs. Reid stopped smiling. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Mr. Tench. And I have another class I have to prepare for—”

“Holden’s had a really hard time,” Bill said, dropping all pretence of friendliness. “He doesn’t carry around those Matchbox cars to _play_ with them. He carries them around because they’re the only thing he has left of his family. He carries them around to keep them _safe_.”

She blinked in astonishment. “All right. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t have all the context. It was still foolish--”

“There is no way in hell Holden took those cars out at school.” Bill leaned forward, letting his voice get low like right towards the end of an interrogation. “Do you really think I’d believe that?” 

Mrs. Reid frowned, breathed hard through her nose. “Mr. Tench, I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate.”

“I’m not insinuating shit,” said Bill. 

Mrs. Reid gasped, scandalized. 

“Holden didn’t lose his Matchbox car. You and McNarland are the only people who had access to his bag. McNarland seemed genuinely baffled when it went missing, and I don’t think he’s smart enough to pull this off anyway. But you?” Bill gave her a shark-like grin. “Gotta hand it to you, Mrs. Reid, you’re pretty cunning. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, is it?”

Mrs. Reid’s jaw dropped in shock. She rose from her seat. “How dare you,” she said, voice shaking ever so slightly. “In all my years teaching I have _never_ been accused of violating the sacred trust—”

“Oh, cut the shit.” Bill rose from his seat as well. “Maybe most of the time you can disguise it as _confiscation_, but I bet you’ve been getting one over on these kids for years. They’re all a bunch of entitled little bastards, anyway, aren’t they? Buncha spoiled little turds who need to be knocked down a peg, _the way we were_?” 

Mrs. Reid pursed her lips and breathed furiously through her nose. “Is it the usual purview of the FBI to fabricate nonsense?” 

Bill barrelled on. “I bet you’ve got quite the collection. What else have you taken? Comic books? 8-track tapes?” He leaned forward, hissing. “Birth control pills?” 

Her face turned red. “Mr. Tench, this is completely out of line.”

“You know what’s out of line? A teacher preying on students, making them think they’re losing their damn minds!” He almost slammed the desk with a closed fist, but stopped himself in time. 

Steam almost came out of Mrs. Reid’s ears. “You are not the first law enforcement parent who has tried to pull strings for his child, you know.” 

“Yeah? Well, I bet I’m the first law enforcement parent whose kid you were dumb enough to steal from,” Bill hissed. “Give it back, Mrs. Reid.” 

Mrs. Reid glared daggers at him, her fists clenched at her sides. “I don’t have it, Mr. Tench,” she spat each word out slowly. “Holden must have lost it.”

He stared at her, maintaining eye contact, searching for the truth.

He straightened up. Adjusted his coat.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just talk to the other law enforcement parents. We can compare notes. And after that, we’ll all put our names on a letter.” He started walking towards the door. “I’ll tell the school board how an FBI investigator has reason to believe you stole from a poor foster kid. And how _you_ let that poor foster kid get lost in a fucking red light district. And maybe I’ll mention your thoughts about the black secretary, and how much you wish you could still beat students with a ruler. It’s been a very productive chat after all, Mrs. Reid. Thank you.” 

Right when he reached the door, Mrs. Reid called out: “Wait.”

He turned. Looked at her expectantly.

Mrs. Reid looked like she was about to burst into flames. After a moment, she yanked open a drawer, and slapped something small down on the desk. 

Bill raced back over there to snatch it before she could change her mind.

The brown Ford Cortina Matchbox was so small in his hand. He huffed a disbelieving laugh, and rubbed at his eyes. He had not expected this to work. 

“Is there anything else?” she snapped.

He gently ran his thumb over the illustration on the front of the Matchbox. “You didn’t send in a reference letter for Debbie’s thing, did you?” 

Mrs. Reid trembled with so much rage, Bill was afraid her eyes would shoot clear out of her skull. “So you’re an eavesdropper, too, Mr. Tench?” 

“Yeah, well.” He turned to leave. “At least I’m not a fucking bully.”


	17. The World's Forgotten Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill makes amends with Nancy and Holden.

After he got Holden's toy car back, Bill marched into Mr. McNarland’s office and gave him an earful. The poor guy sputtered in shock, and clearly wasn't sure how to process all this information. But at least Bill got there first, before Mrs. Reid could put nonsense in McNarland's head. 

Bill called Wendy from a payphone outside the school to tell her he'd be in that afternoon, and apologize once again for being so late.

Truth be told, he was conflicted about what to do next. He actually really wanted to go straight to work, open Dennis Woods' file, and dive back into the Quarterbacks. He was light-headed and clear-eyed the way he often got after a collar, like he could accomplish anything. 

But he didn't think he could let things at home fester. He didn’t want to have a great day at work and then come home to an active war zone. So he drove around, breaking the speed limit and smoking a cigarette, Hendrix blasting on the radio, so the adrenaline would burn off a little. On the way home, he picked up a box of chocolates for Nancy. 

Brian sat in his booster seat at the dining room table, drawing with his crayons. Nancy sat at the other end, head in her hands, staring down at Holden's super secret death book. She looked up when Bill came in, lips twisted unhappily.

Bill ruffled Brian's hair and dropped a kiss on his forehead, from which Brian shied away. Feeling similarly resistant, Bill stood uselessly in front of Nancy. He slid the box of chocolates towards her on the table.

Nancy eyed the chocolates warily. Then she eyed him warily.

Fuck. Bill shifted uncomfortably. Maybe he shouldn't have let the adrenaline burn off, after all. “I’m sorry, Nance," he said.

She dropped her gaze. Didn't take the chocolates. "Do you know what you're saying sorry for?" 

Bill shifted again. He pulled out a chair and sat, leaned forward with his knees on his elbows. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said.

"Scared _me_," she repeated, drily.

Bill swallowed a sigh. "I, uh... I'm sorry I lost control like that. For, uh, raising my voice and... I promised you I would never behave that way, and..."

Nancy sighed unhappily. "You didn't do those things to me. What are you apologizing to _me_ for?” 

Bill released the swallowed sigh. Stared down at his hands, wringing pathetically. He thought about the Campus Creep sneaking into girls' rooms, _in their private space without their permission._ And where that inevitably lead.

"You wanted Holden to have his own room," said Bill. "You wanted him to have a place of his own. And I didn't-- I never considered why that was so important to you."

Nancy raised her head, watching him carefully.

"I violated his… safety zone. And that's not..." He hung his head, his throat dry, his stomach clenching. "I shouldn't have done that. You expect better of me. That's not who you married. That’s not who I want to be." 

Nancy watched him for a long moment. ”That was really hard for you, wasn't it?" 

Bill kept staring at his fisted hands. He didn't think he could say another word without losing it.

"Thank you for trying," Nancy whispered. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

Startled, Bill looked up. "That's--" 

"I didn't like it." Nancy sniffled. “I was really scared. I don't want us to be like that." 

Bill gently cupped her face with his hands and kissed her on the mouth. 

When he pulled away, Nancy wiped at her eyes. "You need to apologize to Holden."

Bill sighed heavily. 

"Where did you go this morning?" asked Nancy. "You didn't go all the way to work and come back before lunch." 

Bill took out the Matchbox car and placed it on the table.

Nancy's eyes went wide. "Where was it?"

"The teacher took it."

“Mrs. Reid?! Wh-- how? _Why?_"

Bill just shook his head. "Have you called Miss Wong yet?" 

"Yes." Nancy dropped her head again, looking down at Holden's notebook. She turned another page, revealing more dense writing. "She says she knows what's in it, and so does the therapist."

"And?"

Nancy shook her head. "She says it's private. And if the therapist thought Holden was a threat to himself or others, then they'd tell us. But as it is, we can't force him to tell us anything about it.”

Bill scowled. "That doesn't seem right to me."

Nancy shrugged. Even her curls looked miserable. "We're not his parents, Bill," she said. "We barely know him. And if he doesn't want to... include us in this part of his life-- that's how she put it-- it might be because he doesn't feel safe here yet." 

Bill frowned. He slowly slid the notebook out of Nancy's grasp and took a closer look.

Without his reading glasses, it was especially hard, but if he got real close, Bill could make out some of the writing. _ANOTHER WOMAN MURDERED IN FRANKLIN SQUARE_, and a date in 1976. It looked like a newspaper article copied down, one that couldn't be cut out and pasted in directly. A crude sketch of a body lying in the grass accompanied it.

Nancy put her elbows up on the table, held her hands in front of her mouth. 

“What about, uh… the visits? With Holden?” asked Bill. 

“She’s going to come on Friday,” said Nancy. “That’s the earliest she could find a spot. You don’t have to be there.” 

“I…” Bill was caught out. “I can be there.”

“No, I think it’s better…” Nancy frowned, looking past him at Brian, who was engrossed in his drawings. “I didn’t tell her about what you did.”

Bill stiffened, breathing through his nose. “We… we should probably tell her.”

Nancy shook her head, sniffling again. “They’ll take Brian.”

Bill did a double take. “Brian’s ours, Nancy,” he said. “They can’t take him.” 

“Things are changing, Bill,” she said. “If they know what they’re doing, they’ll take Brian. _I’d_ take Brian.” She sniffed angrily, still avoiding Bill’s gaze. “I’m not going to risk it.”

“It… it should be Holden’s choice,” Bill said, shakily, not entirely sure of what he was saying. “He should decide whether to tell.” 

Nancy didn’t respond. She just looked at Brian, her jaw working like she was grinding her teeth.

Bill looked back at the notebook, turning to a new page. If he squinted and looked hard, he saw what looked like a list titled “Norfolk-DC.” The list consisted of words like _trucker_, _train conductor_, _bus driver_, _high level Navy?_, _representative’s staff?_

Bill got a headache squinting at the page for too long. He wondered why Holden packed so much writing into such small spaces. To keep people like him from being able to read it? Or just to utilize the space he had, in case he couldn’t get a fresh notebook?

Nancy sighed, and crossed her arms, hugging herself loosely. “After you left yesterday… I gave Holden a little while to cool off, then I tried to talk to him. He wouldn’t answer. I was afraid he’d climbed out the window or something, so I went in, and… he was hiding in the closet.”

“The closet?” 

Nancy nodded. She bit at her thumbnail. “He was covering his head and sort of rocking back and forth. You know how Brian does that sometimes? He wouldn’t respond to me at all. I didn’t want to leave him there, so I had to call Barbara and ask her to bring Brian home. And she had her other two, so it was a whole…” Nancy shook her head. “I brought him some dinner later and he was still in the closet.”

“He didn’t talk at all?” 

“After I put Brian to bed, he came out and washed his dish. He apologized to me. He just said, ‘I’m sorry for everything, Mrs. Tench.’ So it was back to Mrs.” She sniffled. “Bill, he looked so… small, and lost. I wanted to give him a hug, but…” She shook her head. “He needs a mother so badly, but I don’t think I can be that for him. I’m not… I don’t know how.” 

Bill rubbed her back. “Has he come out of his room at all, today?” 

“He came out for breakfast. And he was here when I called Miss Wong.” She patted her hair. “He kept telling Miss Wong everything was just fine here. Lied through his teeth. I told her about his grades, and she said if we get him a tutor through the school, they can reimburse us. Anyway, I think I can help him with some of his subjects. I can tutor him in math and science. If he lets me. Maybe you could help, too.”

Bill frowned. “I… I don’t know what I could—”

“You can help with government,” she said. “You know more about that. And your Spanish is better. I haven’t spoken any Spanish since I stopped nursing, it’s gotten real rusty.”

“I don’t speak it that often, either,” said Bill. “When it comes up, there’s usually a local cop who can translate.” 

“Well, then all three of us can learn together,” she said. “Speak it in front of Brian. It’ll be good for him.”

Bill huffed a laugh, imagining how terrible that was going to sound. 

“Those are the subjects where he needs the most help. We have to do it. He doesn’t want a tutor. He said he’s not going to graduate high school, so he doesn’t think we should make a big deal out of it.”

“Why does he think he’s not going to graduate?” said Bill. “It’s literally the only thing he has to do.” 

Nancy gave him a flat look. “Because he’s going to move into independent living when he turns seventeen,” she said. “He’ll only be in tenth grade. He doesn’t think he can finish high school on his own. And I… agree with him.” She gave Bill an imploring look. 

Bill startled. “Nance… he’s a smart kid. He’s just being sulky right now. If we tutor him and get him back on track, I’m sure he can figure it out.”

Nancy shot him a dark look. “You really think he’s going to be any smarter at seventeen than he is now? Living alone, feeding himself, paying his own bills?”

“Won’t the agency give him a stipend?” 

“Sure Bill, and what if he spends it all on… books, or Matchbox cars, or junk food? Do you really think he’d be able to make the right choices? And when he does drop out, which I think he will, do you think he’d be able to find a job? And keep it? You think his social skills are going to get any _better_ when he’s on his own?”

Bill scowled.

“He’s too scared to even learn how to drive,” said Nancy. “Living like an adult is going to tear him apart.” 

“So… what… what do you think he should do?” 

Nancy sighed. “I think he needs a place to stay until he’s done high school.” 

Bill frowned. “Well, then… maybe we should talk to Miss Wong about finding him a more permanent placement. I mean, he wasn’t supposed to be here this long, and it’s not fair to keep him hanging like that. He should be with a family who’s prepared to keep him until he’s done high school.” 

Nancy looked at him like he’d just announced that he was going to campaign for Jimmy Carter. “Bill, _we_ were the back-up family. If they could have found a better place for him, they would have found it by now. And… Brian loves him. This morning, at breakfast, Brian took Holden’s hand. Just held his hand for twenty minutes. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen Brian come to initiating a hug with someone. And it seemed to mean a lot to Holden.” 

“So you think we should… keep him? Indefinitely?” 

“Well,” Nancy looked troubled. “Maybe another home will become available eventually. But I think if he has to move schools again, that might be the last straw. And he’s making little friends there, that Debbie girl… I don’t think he’s ever had a friend before.”

Bill sighed.

“And he has _you_,” Nancy said wistfully. “And you… admittedly, kicked his door down. But I think with some effort…” She bit her lip, and looked away.

“What do you want, Nance?” Bill asked. “For us?” 

Nancy sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can be good enough for what he needs. And…” She glared witheringly at the book. “I don’t want this in my house. I don’t want to deal with whatever this is.” 

“We don’t have to give it back, do we?” asked Bill. “Can’t we just get rid of it?”

“No, Miss Wong said we had to give it back. She said it was okay that I talked to you about it, first. She said it’s part of his _processing_. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. But, look at this, Bill.” She grabbed the book and turned to one page. “I’m the runaway son of a nuclear A-Bomb,” she read aloud. “I am the world’s forgotten boy. The one who searches and destroys?!” She looked at him in bewilderment. 

Bill thought about it for a moment. “Nance, I think those are song lyrics.” 

“What?” Nancy frowned.

“Yeah.” Bill thought again, playing the song in his head. “That’s, uh, that’s the Stooges.”

“The Stooges?” She looked disgusted.

“There, see?” Bill pointed at a tiny, dense line of writing on top. "'I’m a streetwalking cheetah with a heart full of napalm.' That’s the Stooges.” 

“How do you know?” 

“They play it on the radio.” 

Nancy frowned, and crossed her arms. “Well, they shouldn't.”

“If the caseworker said we have to give it back, then we should do as she says. Unless…” he offered half-heartedly. “We want to give Holden a reason to ask her to leave.” 

Nancy shook her head. “We’re doing whatever Miss Wong says,” she insisted. “I’m not giving them _any_ ammunition about Brian. He’s _our son_ Bill.”

Bill met her eyes, as intense as he’d ever seen them. “Yeah,” he agreed. “He is.”

“There’s something else I want to show you in this,” said Nancy. She turned the notebook to another page towards the back. A Xerox copy of a photograph was pasted inside. A younger-looking Cheryl Tuckman stood between two women. One of the women’s faces was scribbled out.

“That’s Stephanie Tuckman,” Nancy said, pointing to the scribbled-out woman. “I think Cheryl must have done that, I don’t see why Holden would have. _That_ is her sister, Patricia.” She pointed at the other woman, a pretty girl of about twenty— considerably younger than Stephanie.

Bill took the book and looked at the picture thoughtfully.

“I met Patricia a few times, years ago,” said Nancy. “When she was still a teenager. She’s Stephanie’s half-sister, they have different mothers. Poor Patricia was dumped on them when she was fifteen. I’m not sure why. I know Stephanie’s father was kind of a deadbeat. Anyway, Patricia’s closer in age to Cheryl than she is to Stephanie.” Nancy leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “I think that’s the aunt that Mrs. Reid said was a bad influence.”

“Oh?” asked Bill, not sure where this was going.

“Stephanie complained about her all the time. Patricia was always partying, always making a mess. When she turned eighteen— well, these were only rumours. Stephanie would never say. But the rumour was that she was a dancer. A stripper, I mean. In DC.” 

Bill glanced over, interested.

“And then there’s this,” Nancy turned another page. 

A colourful paper about twice the size of a business card, but half the size of a traditional flyer, was pasted into the notebook. 

There was a black line-art drawing of a vampish woman in sultry lingerie. It was printed on hot pink card stock, which made Bill think the woman was supposed to be a redhead. _PEACHY KEENE,_ the card proclaimed. _9:00 PM at the Butterfly Club, W-T-F-S. Private sessions by appointment only._ And a phone number. 

“I think that’s Patricia,” said Nancy. “She has kind of strawberry blonde hair.”

“Did they get this from the flyer guy?” Bill wondered.

“Maybe,” said Nancy. “What I can’t figure out is why Cheryl would want Holden to have this.”

“Maybe… she’s weirdly proud of her aunt?” 

“Well, I know they were close. Stephanie _hated_ that they were so close. And… maybe Cheryl thinks it’s glamorous, to have a stripper aunt in DC. The Butterfly Club… well, as far as these things go, it’s not the sleaziest place you could work.”

“Ambassadors go there,” Bill said. “Senators.”

Nancy pursed her lips. “But I’m still not sure why Cheryl would tell Holden. And the more I think about it…” 

“Maybe Holden told her about his mother,” Bill mused. 

Nancy frowned. “You think Holden knows what his mother was doing?”

Bill shrugged. “He knew she was shooting heroin.”

Nancy made that sad little noise she sometimes made.

Bill flipped back a page to the _ANOTHER WOMAN MURDERED IN FRANKLIN SQUARE_ headline. He got a twinge in his gut. “Does Patricia still live with them? Has she been doing okay?”

“I don’t know.” Nancy looked worried. “I haven’t spoken to Stephanie since I left work. I could ask around.” 

“Yeah, I think you should,” said Bill. He looked at the hot-pink card, brow furrowed. “Does Patricia have the same surname? Tuckman?” 

“I think it’s Kane,” said Nancy. “That’s the only reason I would’ve connected it with Peachy Keene, I think. But I’m not sure.”

“It’s dangerous, that kind of life,” Bill murmured. He tapped where the card said _Private sessions by appointment only._ “I know the Butterfly Club has private suites and security, but these appointments could be anywhere.”

Nancy looked devastated. “She's doing more than dancing, isn't she?” 

Bill had gotten out his own little work notepad, and scribbled the phone number from the hot-pink card. He closed the book, put the Matchbox car in his pocket. “I’m going to give this back to him.”

“But if something happened to Patricia,” Nancy mused. “Why wouldn’t Stephanie do something about it? Why would Cheryl be the one looking?” 

Bill cocked his head. “If Patricia moved out, and they didn’t get along, would Stephanie even notice she was missing?”

Nancy put her hand on the side of her face. “I’m going to call Mary,” she said, referring to her spinster sister in California. 

—

Bill gently knocked on Holden’s door.

There was no answer. Bill wondered if Holden was hiding in the closet again.

“Holden, it’s me,” he said. “I just want to talk.” 

A long stretch of silence.

Bill sighed. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday.” He had apologized so much in the last two days. He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years. “And, uh… I have your book here. I wanna give it back.” 

After a moment, the door opened a crack. A sliver of Holden’s face appeared, avoiding Bill’s gaze, looking down at the book in Bill’s hands.

“Okay,” Bill said slowly. “I’m going to give this back to you, but I don’t want you to just close the door in my face after. We’re going to talk.”

No response.

“I know you don’t want me to come into your room,” said Bill. “But could you please open the door a little bit? Or come out into the hallway?” 

Holden opened the door wider, and wedged himself in between the door and the doorframe. He still wouldn’t look at Bill.

Bill sighed. It seemed like that was the best he was going to get. “Holden, I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m sorry for raising my voice at you, and shoving you. And I’m sorry I… punched the door. That was really shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Holden fidgeted, and stayed silent.

“Can you let me know that you hear me, Holden?”

Holden mumbled something.

“What?” 

“It’s fine,” Holden muttered.

“Well, that’s the thing, Holden. It’s not fine. It’s not okay that I did that. It’s not okay for anyone to treat you like that.”

Holden glanced up briefly, looking confused. He dropped his gaze again.

“Look, I’m trying to apologize— but I…” Bill sighed. “Holden, could you please look at me?”

Holden’s shoulders creeped up. He didn’t look at Bill.

With a grunt, Bill knelt down on the ground, like he was talking to Brian. He looked up at Holden, who still avoided his gaze, but at least Bill could see his face now.

“Here.” Bill held out the notebook. “I still want to talk to you, though.”

Holden snatched the notebook and held it tightly to his chest. He stayed lodged in the doorway, half-shielded by the door. 

“You’re seeing your therapist tonight, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Holden mumbled.

“You talk to him about this book? You tell him what’s in it?” 

Holden nodded.

“Okay. Good. I want you to keep doing that. And Holden, I want you to tell your therapist about what happened yesterday.”

Holden looked confused. “Why?” he asked, after a long hesitation.

“Because… it’s important to be transparent. The therapist can’t help you if he doesn’t have the whole picture.”

Holden frowned. He pressed his face into the doorframe.

“And… I know that you didn’t tell Miss Wong about what I did. I think when you see her on Friday that you should.” 

Holden looked panicked. “I don’t want them to take me away,” he said, his voice strained. “They have to try to find me a different home if something like that happens. If I tell them.” 

Bill swallowed a lump in his throat. “Is that what happened with the other families? Something happened and you… told?”

Holden pressed his face against the doorway. “I didn’t tell anyone anything,” he mumbled, verging on a whine. He sounded so young. “I don’t want to tell her.” 

Bill sighed. His head hurt. “Do you remember what I said when you first got here?” he asked gently. “That if anyone hurt you, I’d tear them limb from limb?” 

Holden kept his face pressed against the doorway. He nodded.

“Well, that includes me, too. I’m pissed at myself for scaring you like that. If someone else acted like that, I’d want you to tell Miss Wong about it.”

Holden glanced down at Bill, his brow furrowed, clearly very confused. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into the doorframe again. “I want to stay here. I like it here. I’m sorry about everything I did. Please don’t make me tell her.” 

Bill sighed. “Okay, Holden. You don’t have to tell Miss Wong anything you’re not comfortable with. Maybe… Maybe I’ll… Listen, Nancy and I are gonna try to help you get your grades up.” 

Holden didn’t answer, pouting, his face still in the doorframe. 

“I know you don’t think school is important, but it is. And if Nancy and I can’t help you, then we’re gonna get you a tutor. It’s the only thing we expect from you, okay? To try your best at school.” 

Holden mumbled into the doorframe. 

Bill got to his feet with a groan. “We’ll talk about it later. I… here.” He pulled the Matchbox out of his pocket and held it out.

Holden stared down at it. His eyes slowly went huge. He turned and tossed his notebook somewhere, then flung the door open wide, standing unguarded, staring down at Bill’s hand. 

Very slowly, he took the Matchbox. He opened it in wonder, letting the little car slide out. Bill realized he probably should’ve checked it was actually in there before, and breathed a sigh of relief that it was.

Holden’s mouth dropped open, and his cheeks slowly turned pink. “You— you got it back!” He gazed up at Bill, eyes brightening for the first time since Monday night. 

Bill coughed uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

Holden stared at him with the biggest, most awe-struck eyes Bill had ever seen. He looked utterly overwhelmed, like he could barely breathe. “Where was it?” 

“Mrs. Reid had it.”

Holden wobbled a little on his feet. “Mrs. Reid?” he sounded shocked. His jaw still wide open, his cheeks flushed. His huge, huge eyes were getting wet. “You believed me,” he declared, at long last.

Bill shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You believed me,” Holden said again, louder. He looked at Bill like Bill was the sunrise, and Holden had just climbed Mt. Fuji. 

Bill coughed uncomfortably.

Holden breathed heavily, and chewed at his bottom lip. “Th… thank you, Bill.” He trembled a little, and took an abortive step forward. He seemed to think better about whatever he was about to do. “Thank you.” He smiled so big it looked like it would hurt his face. 

Bill swallowed against a lump in his throat. Turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at that earnest young face. “Yeah,” he said. “Anytime.”


	18. Holden Visits the BSU (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill takes Holden to work. The team discuss the Quarterbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: I talk a little about police dogs that have died. Considering canon, it's nothing too bad, but if sad dog stuff ruins your day, watch out for the very end of the chapter. 
> 
> Towards the end, when it says "On the car ride back to the office, Bill asked Holden about the K-9 honours hall" you can skip the next paragraph.

Holden walked slowly, wide-eyed and starstruck, as they entered the FBI Academy building. Bill kept having to tug him forward by his sleeve. He got Holden signed in as a guest at the security desk, and gave him a visitor badge.

“You wear this all day,” Bill said. “Don’t take it off.”

“Yes, sir.” Holden carefully affixed the badge to his jacket’s breast pocket. He was wearing his church suit and tie, and had spent longer than usual that morning smoothing his hair down into his neat side part, trying to imitate the look of an agent. But his knapsack, and his tennis shoes, and his pinch-able baby cheeks gave him away as a kid visiting Dad’s office.

“Good morning, Special Agent Tench,” Calvin appeared behind him.

“Hey Calvin,” Bill grinned. “Holden, this is Calvin Delarosa. Calvin graduated from the Academy earlier this year. Now he works for me.” Bill put his arm around Calvin’s shoulders for a proud squeeze.

“Hello,” Holden mumbled. His eyes were very wide, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. He stared at Calvin like the young agent was some creature he’d never seen before.

“Hey Holden.” Calvin gave him a lop-sided smile. 

Holden blushed harder, his shoulders going up. He dropped his gaze and stared at the floor. 

“Calvin here’s gonna give you a tour of the Academy,” said Bill.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” said Calvin. 

Calvin and another young agent named Melissa Ackerman were assigned to the BSU when the unit started growing. At 23, Calvin was the youngest possible age for a fully fledged Special Agent. 

He was tall and strong, confident in that way only young men in the prime of their lives can be. He was almost as tall as Bill, in fact, and built like a welterweight boxer, with a layer of baby fat softening his hard edges. He had thick, jet black hair, and cheerful brown eyes. A few short years ago, he could’ve been one of their boy stabbing victims.

_Fuck,_ thought Bill. _There’s no need to see it everywhere. Stop seeing it every fucking where._

“Okay,” Bill said, patting Holden’s shoulder. “You’re gonna stay with Calvin for the morning. There’s a lot to see on the tour.”

“I can’t come with you?” asked Holden. 

“I’ll see you at lunch,” said Bill. 

“But…” 

“Be good,” Bill tossed over his shoulder as he headed to the elevator. After he jabbed the call button, he turned back to see Holden staring after him, brows furrowed nervously. He waved, and Holden waved back.

\--

It was Friday, and the end of Holden’s full week of suspension. He’d go back to school on Tuesday. 

Holden did a complete 180 after he got his Cortina back. He dropped all the sulky bullshit, and not only did he revert to being helpful and polite, he was almost _pleasant_. According to Nancy, he threw himself into his homework, and did his studying out on the dining table instead of tucked away in his room. He would bring Bill a beer when Bill got home from work, and he was more talkative at dinner than ever. Once, Bill came home and Holden was in his gym clothes, doing a TV workout with Nancy, and both of them seemed to be having a good time. 

He didn’t even sulk after a visit to the eye doctor-- Miss Wong’s suggestion-- where he was given a very ugly/nerdy pair of glasses to wear when sitting in the back of the class. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to wear them that often.

Holden _did_ sigh and fidget a little during church, but Bill couldn’t really blame him for that.

Nancy started to look a little run-down pretty early in that first week, though. It was a big adjustment, to go from just looking after Brian, to _also_ trying to help Holden with his studies. 

And then there was Brian’s specialist appointment.

“It’s going to take all day on Friday,” Nancy said as she was getting dinner ready earlier in the week. “I’m not sure about taking Holden with me.”

“Have him bring his schoolwork,” said Bill. “Leave him in a diner, or the waiting room. He can entertain himself.” 

“It’s in Alexandria. The last time someone took Holden to the city, he wandered off.” 

“He’s on his best behaviour now. He won’t risk it.” 

“Yes, he’s on his best behaviour. But it’s also been… kind of a long week.” Nancy looked at him forlornly.

Bill balked. “You want me to take him to work?” 

“I don’t know what else to do with him. And I need a break, Bill.” 

When Holden came into the kitchen and figured out what they were talking about, his eyes got huge. “Yes, please! Please, please take me to work! I promise I’ll be good!”

“He promises he’ll be good, Bill,” said Nancy.

Bill frowned.

“I’ll bring homework. And I won’t bother anyone. I’ll be so good, I promise!” 

“The FBI is not a place for kids,” said Bill. “Especially not my unit.”

“Isn’t there a tour he can take?” asked Nancy. “Have him do that, and then take him to the movies or something.”

“I can’t take another half day off work,” said Bill. 

“Then send him to the movies with one of your interns.” 

Bill sighed. Sometimes it was really obvious that Nancy didn't entirely understand how his office worked.

Holden bit his lip and rubbed his fingers together nervously, looking at Bill with big, imploring eyes.

“Do you _really_ want to leave him home alone all day?" Nancy cocked an eyebrow at him.

Bill thought of the beer in the fridge. His gun stored in the nightstand. His old porn collection stashed in the attic.

Dead boys locked in his cabinet.

“Fine,” he sighed.

Holden all but vibrated out of his skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

\--

After fobbing Holden off on Calvin, Bill went straight to his office and started sterilizing it, for lack of a better word. He made sure every case file and stray piece of paper was put away, and every lockable cabinet and desk drawer was, in fact, locked.

While sorting through his notepad to make sure everything was accounted for, he noticed the number for Peachy Keene that he’d scrawled in there the week before. 

He called them up. 

“Hello?” A woman who sounded like a heavy smoker answered the phone. 

Bill blinked. He was half-expecting there to be no answer at this time of day. He didn’t hear anything in the background to place location. “Hey. I’m calling for an appointment with Peachy Keene.” 

“Peach doesn’t work here anymore, darling,” said the woman. “But I’ve got some other redheads if you’re interested.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Bill. “Does Peach still dance, at least?”

“Not at the Butterfly. She’s moved on.”

“Moved on? Where?”

The woman paused. “I don’t know, honey,” she said. “Are you interested in booking an appointment with someone else or not?”

“Uh... you don’t happen to have a home number for Peach?” He decided to go for broke. “Or a real name I could trace her down with?”

The woman laughed. “As if I’d tell you, asshole.” She hung up. 

That went about as well as he’d expected. Bill made a notation in his notepad that the number on Peachy Keene’s advertisement no longer reached her, and then wondered, fruitlessly, how else he’d go about trying to find her. 

Melissa knocked on his doorway. He had spent most of the previous day compiling a briefing on the Quarterbacks case. She held the brief in question. 

“Good morning, Special Agent Tench,” she said. Her mane of red curls was held back in a loose braid, which seemed to be the best she could do to tame it. “I made those copies you asked for, and distributed them.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” Bill took back his original. “You see what happened to the corkboard I had in here?”

“Special Agent Barney took it to the boardroom,” she said. “He got in early today.”

“Oh great, Jim’s here.” Bill went to the boardroom, where sure enough, Jim was already adding supplemental information to the material Bill had halfway prepared. 

Gregg and Bill had briefly visited Takoma Park, Maryland, the week prior, but there was little light they could shed into the murder of Dennis Woods. Dennis’ school picture-- and his death photo-- graced the top of the corkboard as their first known Quarterback victim. 

“Hey, Bill,” Jim greeted, easygoing as ever, despite being in the middle of what must have been a stressful negotiation with his wife about moving cities. “Quite some work you have here. Seems like there were a few developments since Manassas.” He put a final pin on a map of the region, in the area where Chris Haddon’s body was dumped in Richmond. 

“Would’ve been nice if our guy had taken a vacation, huh?” quipped Bill. He got his notepad, and started putting up some of his loose thoughts on the whiteboard that took up an entire wall of the boardroom. All that stuff about a teen mother, an assault on kids, sports hazing, etc. He put up the sparse list that started their profile: 

White male  
Mid 20s to mid 40s (and the accompanying birth years)  
Access to a vehicle

Wendy and Gregg joined them, after having read the briefings Melissa had copied for them. Wendy had with her a big earthenware mug of tea that smelled spicy and healthy. 

“Okay,” Bill started the meeting. “Last May, fifteen-year-old Dennis Woods was found stabbed to death, dumped face down in a field in Takoma Park, Maryland. Every couple of months or so since then, another boy in his teens has been murdered in the same fashion. Our oldest vic was just shy of his twentieth birthday. That was the second, Jeremy Adams in Bethesda, Maryland. Then there was Craig Ward, eighteen, in Charlottesville, Virginia. Samuel Raza, seventeen, in Manassas. And most recently, Christopher Haddon, sixteen, down in Richmond. 

“They were all dumped in suburban fields, in residential areas, where they were easily discovered. They were all murdered elsewhere and moved, as there was never any blood at the dump site. All the dump sites were commuter distance to DC, except for Charlottesville and Richmond. But only barely.”

“Commuter distance to Quantico,” mused Jim. 

“Maybe. Charlottesville still seems like a bit of a hike. But generally, our unsub probably has a job that lets him move in an area at least this wide.” Bill gestured at the map. “If not wider.” 

“We interviewed a bus driver for Prince William County,” said Jim. “Among other things, he didn’t serve this whole area. But there’s plenty of truckers, repairmen. Any number of jobs would fit the bill.”

“Could he run his own business?” asked Wendy. “Maybe some kind of independent contractor or consultant?”

“I’m not so sure about a consultant,” said Bill. “Our guy is probably blue collar, they usually are. But a plumber or roofer? Sure.” He wrote _owns his business_ on the whiteboard. 

“Notably,” said Jim, “there haven’t been any signs of sexual assault against the victims.”

“Though we’re keeping the possibility open that the attacks are still sexually motivated,” added Bill.

“The first three victims had defensive wounds on their hands,” said Jim. “Sammy and Chris were bound. We think he lured the boys with drugs and alcohol, and got them intoxicated before either binding or attacking them.”

“And then there’s the jacket,” said Bill. “Both the first and last victims were wearing varsity letter jackets at the time of their murder. In Christopher’s case, the killer removed his jacket, bound him, killed him, and then put the jacket back on him after he bled out.” 

Bill explained that Chris wasn’t an athlete, but had his brother’s jacket, and how Dennis wore the jacket he earned on the track team. He shared his thoughts on how the boys shared an all-American high school athlete look.

“They were all white, except Samuel Raza, who was half-Pakistani. Jim was on the fence about whether the killer would perceive Sammy to be white, and I’m inclined to agree. But he might be the exception to the rule about this unsub staying in his own race. Sammy might’ve been the closest he could find to the fantasy that night.” Bill looked at the gathered group. “Any thoughts?”

Gregg raised his hand, like a schoolboy. 

“Yes, Gregg?” 

“When you interviewed the bus driver,” said Gregg, flipping through his copy of the brief. “You brought up that he had a child around the same age as the victims.” 

“So?” asked Bill.

“I was wondering why. Was that a tactic?”

“We were just looking for weak spots,” said Jim. “Neither Bill or I ever really thought that bus driver was involved.” 

“Anybody with a kid gets upset when something happens to a kid the same age.” Bill shrugged. “He reacted exactly how we thought he’d react. Like a normal person.” 

“So it wasn’t because you thought the killer might have been a father himself?” asked Gregg.

“Huh,” said Jim. “No, we thought the killer would be only a little older than the victims.” 

“Well, if he was a young father of a teenager,” said Gregg, “then he’d only be in his forties. Maybe even younger. Still fit enough to pull this off.” 

“Hmm,” said Wendy. “I was thinking of general middle aged rage at younger men, particularly as sexual competitors, but that could certainly still be present in a father.” 

Bill frowned. “A father? You’re saying this guy has enough time after all the planning and hunting and killing to take care of a family?”

“I don’t think anyone said he was a _good_ father, Bill,” said Wendy. “He might not even have access to his children.” Gregg nodded emphatically. 

“I’ve heard of certain types of divorced dads lashing out at their wives and kids,” said Jim. “Sometimes they’ll even travel across states to do it. But why these random boys?” 

“Simple transference,” said Wendy. “We have countless subjects whose victims were, at least at first, symbols of their mothers, or another woman from their formative years. Or symbols of their sexual fixation.” 

“A father sexually fixated on his own son,” said Gregg. “That’s about as deviant as you can get.” 

“No fucking kidding,” said Bill. He plopped himself down in a chair, lit a cigarette, crossed one ankle over his other knee. “This guy’s a planner. I’m not sure if he stalks, but he definitely hunts until he finds the right kid. I don’t see him having room for much else in his life. Wendy’s right. He must be estranged from his kids. Maybe the wife took his son somewhere he can’t get to him. Maybe this is a way of getting him back.”

Jim looked thoughtful. “Is it really impossible for him to be a family man? Couldn’t this be an outlet for his frustration about his family?” 

“What?” Bill frowned.

“Interesting,” said Wendy.

Jim gestured between Bill and Gregg. “Speaking father to father, cards on the table. Don’t you guys have any moments when you look at your kids and think, _God, how much freedom I’d have if I wasn’t saddled with you?_ Just for a moment?”

Bill’s stomach clenched hard.

Gregg shook his head. “I’ve never felt that way.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Agent Smith,” said Jim. “But I have. And I love my kids more than anything. And at the risk of my professional detachment, given the average age of the people in this room... aren’t we all a little familiar with a father who wasn’t emotionally equipped to _be_ a father?” 

A familiar lump rose in Bill’s throat. A welcome little lump that kept any feelings or words from coming up any further. He stared across the desk, thinking of nothing. 

Gregg slowly lowered his gaze. 

Wendy cleared her throat, adjusting in her seat like she was tightening all her joints. “I think it warrants consideration. This might be a law-abiding, gainfully employed man, and the rigours of fatherhood are his stressors. Parenthood is certainly known to take a toll. I have a colleague who studied mothers with chronic depression, and the sheer number of volunteer respondents was enough to convince me how hard it is.” 

Bill noticed some gum on the sole of his shoe. He scuffed it on the floor. 

“You sacrifice something of yourself when you become a parent,” continued Wendy. “It’s too much for him.” 

“You’re supposed to sacrifice yourself for your kids,” said Bill. “Doesn’t it come naturally?”

Wendy’s blunt hair swished as she tilted her head, giving him a wry look. “It doesn’t come naturally to all of us. I can’t imagine how many people become parents because of social pressure rather than any true desire.” 

“So…” Jim gazed calmly at all the dead boys on the board. “We’re talking about someone who perhaps didn’t want to become a parent, but is one. Someone who resents the sacrifice he had to make?” 

“He’s killing the symbol of the thing he resents,” says Bill, coming around to the idea. He stood again, wrote _married_ and _has teen children_ on the board. He amended the age range to _mid 30s-mid 40s_. “He's married. Supporting a family. Looks like a normal dad to everyone else."

"He's probably a narcissist," said Wendy. "His public image is important."

"If he leaves his family, he'll be seen as a deadbeat," said Jim.

"And he can't get rid of his kids," said Bill. "He'll lose everything else he has." 

“His wife, for one thing,” said Wendy.

"Maybe he's the kind of narcissist who thinks of his wife as his property," said Jim. "But he knows the kids are more important to her than he is."

"Lots of new fathers get envious of their children, at first," said Wendy, "for taking more of their wife's attention. Or having access to her body, which the husband felt belonged to him. A narcissist wouldn't be able to process that and move on in a healthy fashion." 

“So in a way,” said Bill, "his son _is_ a sort of sexual competition. Like you were saying, Wendy. Like a… reverse Oedipus complex.” 

“A Laius complex,” said Gregg.

Bill turned away from the board. “What?”

Gregg glanced around them. “Laius was Oedipus’ father. Don’t you remember your classics?”

Jim chuckled. “Barely.” 

“It’s been a long time since grammar school,” Bill added.

“Go on, Gregg,” Wendy said gently.

Gregg hunched over a little on himself, hands hiding under the table. "The Laius complex is a paternal desire to extinguish the male heir, and ensure there are no successors. It comes from a narcissistic delusion that there is only room for one figure to exist, so the other-- either father or son-- has to be destroyed. Or at least subjugated. George Devereux coined the term."

"Who's George Devereux?" asked Bill. 

"Stop interrupting him," said Wendy. 

Gregg smiled at Wendy gratefully. “In the myth, Laius heard a prophecy that his newborn son would one day usurp him, so he sent him out to be killed. A shepherd— or somebody— brought Oedipus to a neighbouring kingdom in secret. Oedipus never desired his mother _or_ hated his father. He was adopted, and he loved his adopted parents dearly. It was Laius who desired to kill his son.” 

“Huh,” said Jim.

“It’s actually a bit of a recurring theme in classical mythology,” said Gregg. “For instance, Cronus overthrew his father, partly as revenge for his father’s mistreatment of Cronus’ brothers. Then Cronus was scared that his own son would usurp him, so he swallowed his children as they came out of the womb. But his wife hid Zeus, the youngest, who eventually came back to kill his father and rescue his siblings. Cronus wouldn’t have been murdered if he hadn’t tried to kill his children in the first place. And Cronus’ father would not have been overthrown if he hadn’t mistreated his sons.” 

Bill watched his cigarette smouldering.

"There was also Abraham trying to sacrifice Isaac," offered Jim. 

Gregg's head bobbed side to side. "Well, that was a little different. That was a test from God." 

"And God himself sacrificed his own son," Wendy said drily. 

"Again…" Gregg frowned. "That was different. God _became_ human through Jesus Christ so he could experience humanity. So he could understand us and love us better, erase our sins, and bring us to grace. I would argue that’s the ideal model for fatherhood. You die to the life you had before, to understand your child and help them become fully actualized. The Laius complex is the opposite. Their children are just... replacements.”

“Well, it's certainly interesting, Gregg,” said Wendy, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “We spend so much time talking about people who had unhealthy fixations on their parents in one form or another. I think it’s easy to forget that children have a lot more to fear from their parents than the other way around.”

“I think the culture tells us to replace ourselves with children so our legacy lives on,” mused Jim. “But a narcissist might see that kind of replacement as obliteration.” 

“He doesn’t want to be replaced,” said Bill. Then, louder: “He doesn’t want to be replaced.”

“What are you thinking, Bill?” Wendy prodded. 

It was on the edge of his brain. Bill stubbed out his cigarette, and uncapped a red marker.

“Fantasies start young,” he said. “He’s had a desire to do this before he became a dad. The paternal fear of being replaced is triggering-- what? A memory? Was he replaced before? Did _he_ replace someone?” He hovered the red marker over the whiteboard. “Replacement is obliteration,” he muttered, and that’s what he meant to write. 

What he actually wrote was _DEAD BROTHER_. When he realized what he’d done, the marker turned sharply, leaving a stark red line across the board, and a wet, red blotch on his hand. 

He cleared his throat to hide his confusion. “Fucken marker,” he muttered, capping it angrily and tossing it aside. 

Wendy looked interested in what he’d written, but a timid knock on the boardroom door interrupted them. 

Calvin hesitantly peeked in. “Hi,” he said. “Uh…”

Bill straightened. “What’s wrong? Where’s Holden?”

Calvin opened the door wider, revealing Holden standing behind him. “Everything’s fine, he’s right here. Just…” Holden, wide-eyed, ducked under Calvin’s arm and entered the boardroom, staring at the corkboard with total fascination. “We’re done with the tour.” 

“That fast? Holden, don’t look at that.” Bill tried to block Holden’s view. “Did you do the whole tour?”

“Yeah,” Calvin shrugged. “I showed him the lecture halls, and the simulation rooms, and the shooting range. He wasn’t really that interested. Kept asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. Like, about cases I’d never heard of before. And a lot of questions about _you_.” 

Holden was slippery. Bill held him by the shoulder and finally clamped his other hand over Holden’s eyes. 

“Bill, come on,” Holden whined. 

“Did you show him the K-9 honours display?” 

“Yes, Agent Tench,” said Calvin. “That only takes ten minutes. And it’s not that interesting unless you’re crazy for dogs. It’s just sad.” 

“What is this?” said Holden. “What are you working on?” 

“Take him to my office,” said Bill, trying to push Holden over to the door.

“You want me to, like… physically drag him?” 

Wendy stifled a chuckle. “Calvin, Melissa is drowning in prison release paperwork.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Calvin. He mouthed _thank you_ as he left, closing the door behind him. 

“Bill, why don’t you introduce us?” Wendy looked smug and amused.

Bill sighed. He turned Holden by his shoulders so he was facing the team. 

Holden tried to sneak another glance at the corkboard. When he realized people were looking at him, he pulled at the cuffs of his church suit, adjusted his tie, and stared at the ground. 

“As some of you may know, Nancy and I recently adopted a son.”

Gregg lit up with joy. He opened his mouth. 

“No,” Bill cut him off with a pointed finger. “We adopted a four-year-old named Brian. Now, again, as some of you may know…"

Wendy quirked her lips in her version of a smirk.

“…we’ve also been fostering. This is Holden.” Bill patted Holden’s shoulder. “He’s sixteen. And he’s spending the day here with me. Holden, this is my team.”

“Hello,” Holden mumbled, staring directly down at the floor, shoulders up as far as they could go.

“Good for you, Bill!” Gregg smiled like a loon. “Holden, welcome.” 

Jim looked as close to stunned as Bill had ever seen him. “Fostering a teenager,” he finally said. “Bill, that’s— well. Great.”

“My sister fosters,” Gregg said proudly. “She’s got four of her own, and four foster kids. She says it’s very hard work, but very rewarding. I’m really happy for you, Bill.” 

_Eight kids??_ thought Bill. _What a freak._

Holden had twisted under Bill’s grasp, and turned back to the board. “What are you working on?” he asked.

“Holden,” Bill said gently, trying to turn him again. It was like Holden was still in six-year-old mode after regressing in the whole Matchbox car saga. “You didn’t let everyone introduce themselves.” 

“Oh,” Holden said. “Sorry.” 

Bill put a protective arm around Holden’s shoulder and nudged him over to Wendy. “This is Dr. Wendy Carr. I told you about her.”

“Yes,” Holden said, straightening up. “The professor. Hello.”

Wendy smiled wider than Bill thought was possible for her, and stood. “Well I’m flattered that Bill told you about me. It’s very nice to meet you, Holden.” 

She shook his hand. Holden's arm flopped around weakly. 

“Okay.” Bill squeezed Holden's shoulder again, leaning down to whisper at him. “Remind me to teach you how to shake a hand." 

“What?” said Holden. 

Gregg was already standing, his hand in Holden’s face.

“Special Agent Gregg Smith,” Bill supplied. “He’s vital to our team. Been here since the beginning.” 

Gregg beamed. “Thanks, Bill. It’s so good to meet you, Holden.” 

“Hello,” said Holden, letting Gregg shake his arm about. 

“And Special Agent Jim Barney. He just moved up from the Atlanta field office, and is joining us full-time.”

“If I have my druthers.” Jim had stood, and adjusted the buttons on his jacket. He held out a hand for Holden.

Holden stared up at him, mouth open. That pink flush crept back into his cheeks. 

Jim reached out and took Holden’s hand. Squeezed it gently. “It’s very nice to meet you, Holden.” 

Holden squeaked. 

_He’s being weird,_ Bill thought in a panic. _He’s been weird twice in thirty seconds!_ He gently pulled Holden away from Jim, and gave Jim an apologetic look. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell that was.” 

“It’s okay.” Jim sat again, putting his feet up on the table. “I sometimes have that effect on people.”

Wendy covered her mouth against a tight little laugh, which Bill could swear he had never seen her do before.

Gregg looked as deeply confused as Bill felt. 

Wendy cleared her throat, and shook her head. “Sorry. I just thought of something unrelated.” 

“Okay,” Bill narrowed his eyes at her. Holden was back in front of the corkboard, staring intently at the gruesome pictures of murdered boys. “Well, obviously we can’t keep having our meeting.”

“I don’t mind if he stays,” said Wendy.

“Are you kidding me?” 

“He’s sixteen, not six,” said Wendy.

“He’s been acting like a six-year-old a lot lately," Bill muttered. 

“No, I haven’t,” Holden sulked. He was up on his tippie toes to get a better look at the Dennis Woods materials on top of the board.

“You don’t think a kid seeing this stuff would mess him up?” Bill asked.

Wendy shrugged. “I don’t think it would’ve affected me.”

“Yeah, well,” Bill said. “No offence, Wendy, but you’re kind of a robot.” 

“Hey,” said Gregg.

“It’s okay,” said Wendy, completely unbothered. “But thank you, Gregg.”

“I don’t mind if he stays, either,” said Gregg. “I think it’s nice that he wants to help you.” 

“Yes!” Holden spun, his thumbs tucked under the straps of his knapsack. “I want to help.”

“Gregg, seriously?” 

“Well…” Gregg looked a little pained. “I mean, I don’t want _any_ kid to see this. But he seems mature. He even dressed professionally. I think it’s important to encourage a child’s talents and interests.” 

Bill sputtered. He looked to Jim.

Holden bit his lip. 

Jim shrugged. “I have it on good authority that you and I wouldn’t have been hurt by this at sixteen.”

“Things were different then," scoffed Bill.

“Maybe,” said Jim. “And I wouldn’t want _my_ kids to see this. But I think, out of all of us, it’s the most relevant to him. I don’t mind if he stays. It’s up to you, Bill.”

Bill huffed another cynical laugh. Wendy, maybe, wasn't a surprise, but Jim, and Gregg of all people? And they were fathers! They wouldn't want their own kids seeing it, but it was okay for Holden?

And they didn't know about Holden's super secret death book. There was no way this was right. This had to be against some rule, somewhere. 

But if Bill had to keep Holden in his office and babysit him, he wouldn't get anything done, and every second that passed was another second closer to some kid's death. 

He suddenly felt very tired. “Fine,” he said, retreating to lean against a wall. “Holden, you don’t repeat anything you hear.”

“Of course not,” Holden said softly. He pointed at Samuel Raza’s school picture. “This is that dead boy from Manassas. I read about that in the paper. That’s why you went there.” 

“You read the paper?” asked Gregg.

“Yes,” said Holden, not looking away from the board. “And I read about him, too, in Bethesda. Jeremy Adams. That was a while ago. These are the... Quarterbacks. That’s what the papers call them.” Holden looked at the rough ideas of their profile scrawled out on the whiteboard. “You think they’re linked. You think they’re one… multiple murderer. Like Jack the Ripper. Or Harvey Glatman.” 

Bill, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, didn’t respond.

“That’s right, Holden,” Wendy said gently. “We call them serial killers. People who murder over a longer period of time.” 

“Serial killers,” Holden said carefully. “Like he’s telling a story.”

“Well…” Bill started.

Wendy looked impressed. “He could be,” she said. “Before you got here, we were discussing the possibility that this man has a son around the same age as the victims. We think maybe he resents his son, but since he can’t hurt his son without getting in trouble, he’s taking it out on boys who remind him of his son.” 

Holden looked thoughtfully again at the school photos of the victims. “They all have dark hair,” he said. 

“Huh,” Jim said. “I guess they do.” 

“It’s kind of scary, huh buddy?” asked Gregg. “That a dad could do that?” 

Bill rubbed at his eyes wearily.

“I don’t know,” said Holden. “I never had a dad. But I knew a girl in foster care who ran across four lanes of traffic to get away from her dad.” 

That shut Gregg up. 

Holden straightened. “We learned in school about a Russian king who killed his son. He didn’t think his son was good enough to be heir to the throne.”

Jim nodded. “Ivan the Terrible."

“Yes,” said Holden. “He attacked his son, and then afterward he cradled him and wept, and prayed to God to save him. So… it could be both, I think. Someone can love their kid, and also hate them. I knew another girl in foster care whose mother broke her arm, and she said her mother loved her, and that she was sorry.” He pointed at the crime scene photo of Christopher Haddon. “That’s why they’re face down, right? And hidden? He feels bad about what he did.” 

Jim, Wendy, and Gregg all shared an impressed look. Bill rolled his eyes. 

“That’s what we think,” said Jim. 

“Is that common?” asked Holden. “For killers to feel bad?” 

“It depends,” said Jim. 

“Well, do you think they hide a body because they feel bad, or just because they don’t want to get caught?” 

“Probably because they don’t want to get caught,” said Jim. “But these bodies weren’t hidden very well. They were just face down.”

“Maybe he wanted the parents to have them back,” said Holden. “If he really didn’t care, he would’ve burned them, or… chopped them up. Or hidden them somewhere only he knew.” Holden’s voice was very quiet now, and he had a faraway gaze, looking straight through the desk. 

“Okay, everybody,” Bill finally put his foot down. “This is an underage minor for whom I am legally responsible. Please stop talking to him about murder. We’re going for lunch.”

“Why don’t we join you?” Wendy asked, teasingly. 

“I’m taking him to McDonald’s,” said Bill. “I can’t imagine you’re interested.”

“I thought there was an FBI cafeteria,” Holden whined.

“Yes,” Bill started herding him out of the room. “But I’m taking you to McDonald’s. As a reward for being such a _great kid_ today.”

Holden stared up at him in utter confusion. “Huh?” 

—

“Did I help?” Holden asked nervously as they drove to McDonald’s. “I wanted to help.”

“Holden, no,” said Bill. “You didn’t help.” 

“Maybe if I can spend more time with it,” said Holden. “I really think if I can—”

“Holden,” Bill said forcefully. “You are not an FBI agent. You’re sixteen damn years old. I don’t need your help, and I don’t want it. Okay?” 

Holden fidgeted in his seat. “Okay,” he finally muttered.

“Now, listen, I’m glad that you’re… excited about something. I guess.” Bill pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot. “But you have to cool it. I’m not entirely sure I didn’t break an ethics rule by having you in that room. None of this is your business.”

“Okay, Bill,” Holden huffed. He clutched his knapsack and ran from the car to the restaurant.

They got their food and sat at a table. Holden was still pretty keyed up, fidgeting in his seat. Bill took the biggest bite of his burger that he could, while Holden looked like he was gathering the courage to say something.

“Is everyone at the FBI so good looking?” Holden finally blurted out. 

“What? You mean Wendy? She’s not FBI, she’s a consultant. No, most female agents are not quite so… Wendy-like.” 

Holden stared at him, cheeks slightly pink, mouth open. He suddenly cringed, like he’d realized something completely mortifying, and dropped his gaze.

Bill shoved more fries in his mouth. “Can you imagine?” He said around them. “You’d never get anything done. Don’t tell Nancy I said that.” 

Holden kept staring at his tray, and said nothing. After a while, his shoulders relaxed, and he started to pick at his food again. 

“When we get back,” said Bill. “You’re gonna stay in my office and do your homework.”

“I’m ahead on my homework,” said Holden.

“Holden, you’re missing two weeks of classes and you were behind to begin with. Don’t try that on me.” 

Holden sighed miserably. “Can’t I just watch you work? I promise I won’t say anything.” 

“No,” said Bill. “This isn’t Take Your Kid to Work Day. This is me babysitting you because you got yourself suspended, and we can’t trust you to leave you in the house alone.” 

Holden slumped. If it was possible to eat a cheeseburger sulkily, he did, tearing it apart into sad little chunks and chewing slowly.

Bill sighed. “Look, I know I’ve been short with you today. I’m not angry. I know you’re just curious, and you don’t mean any harm. But I have a lot on my plate, and I don’t need you underfoot. My work’s really not for kids.”

“I’m not a kid though, Bill,” said Holden. “I’m sixteen.”

Tale as old as time. Bill sucked the straw of his Coke until it was empty, slurping loud enough for Holden to give the cup a pointed look.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Bill asked. “Seeing those pictures?” 

Holden shrugged. “Not really.” 

“Well, it bothers me to see it.” Bothered him more and more each day, in fact. “And it bothers me for _you_ to see it.” 

Holden ate another chunk of his cheeseburger, pouting down at the table.

“Did you bring your kit for cleaning your braces?” 

Holden nodded.

“Do you want to do that here or at the office?”

Holden swallowed his mouthful. “Do you have a bathroom?” 

“There’s one in the basement. It’s a lot quieter than on the main floor.”

“Okay,” said Holden. “I can do it there. Thank you, sir.” 

Bill fiddled with the straw of his cup. “You better not tell Nancy about the pictures you saw. She’d flip.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill regarded Holden for a while. He was going to have to start paying attention to when he called him _Bill,_ and when he called him _sir._ He hadn’t stopped calling Bill _sir_ no matter how many times Bill asked. 

On the car ride back to the office, Bill asked Holden about the K-9 honours hall. Holden could tell Nancy about that, and that would fill up some time.

“There was Cashew,” said Holden. “She was a German Shepherd. She was shot by a drug dealer. Her handler says she saved his life. There was Bomber. He was a Belgian Malinois. He and his handler both died in a car accident as the result of a chase. There was Captain, he was a… Labrador, I think. He also died by gunfire, and he was the first FBI dog to be given full honours when he was laid to rest. They would take nose prints of the dogs, like fingerprints, and they had them all up there with their pictures. There was also Ladybug…” 

Bill wondered how it was possible that Holden was doing so poorly in school, when he remembered every detail of the K-9 honours hall after only being there for ten minutes?


	19. Tyler Banks, Richmond VA (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill learns about an old case. Holden decides on a career path.

“Let me see what homework you brought,” said Bill, when he got Holden back to his office. 

Holden had his math and Spanish books, and the worksheets from his homework package. 

Bill looked at the worksheets. “Didn’t you mention that you had an English paper you were writing?”

"Yeah," Holden sulked. "I have to write a book report about Animal Farm." He took a worn little paperback out of his knapsack.

"Did you finish reading it?"

Holden shrugged.

Bill suppressed an eyeroll. “Do you know how to type?” 

Holden looked confused. “A little. It's been a long time since I've gotten to use a typewriter, though.”

“You can use one of ours.” Bill thought if Holden's papers were written in the same tiny, hard-to-read print he used in his super secret death book, it probably wasn't helping his grades. He grabbed a typewriter from a supply shelf in the bullpen, and lugged it into his office. “Probably good to practice typing, anyway. I can't type for shit, and it really slows you down if you have to find someone else to do it.” 

"Thanks, Bill," said Holden, sounding genuinely touched.

Bill showed Holden how to load the paper. Then, hoping that dicking around with a typewriter would keep Holden occupied for the rest of the afternoon, he went back to the boardroom. 

Melissa was in there, poring over large stacks of fax paper with Gregg and Jim. Wendy sat at the end of the table, writing neatly in her notebook, with a takeaway coffee cup that Bill recognized from the cafeteria. 

“What’s going on?” asked Bill.

“Agent Tench!” Melissa straightened up. “As soon as you left, I got a call from someone at Richmond PD, a lady named Rose Larson."

Bill blinked. "Oh?”

"She, uh... she wanted to fax something to you. And I got the feeling she wasn't necessarily allowed to be doing that… but I said yes, anyway, and…” She tilted her head towards the stacks of faxed paper, with the perforated dot matrix edges still attached. 

Bill stepped closer, as Melissa left the room. "Is this another fucking dead kid?"

“Tyler Banks, fourteen years old,” said Jim, frowning at the page in his hand. “He was a foster kid in Richmond. Who’s Rose Larson?” 

"She's the civilian secretary down there," said Bill. He looked over Jim’s shoulder. _Foster kid_ rattled around in his head.

"I think she most definitely didn't have permission to send this over," said Jim. "The case is already solved."

"What? When?” 

“Last year. The murder happened two winters ago.” 

“Jesus Christ,” said Bill, scanning down another page of the file. It wasn’t _quite_ the same story as their other boys. 

Whoever did this to Tyler didn't intoxicate him first, or if they did, they didn't intoxicate him enough. Dennis, Jeremy, and Craig all had defensive wounds on their hands, but they were all clearly taken by surprise. This kid? He fought for his damn life. He was covered in bruises, and had two broken ribs. 

“He was assaulted much worse before the stabbing than the others,” Gregg said, right as Bill had the same thought. 

“But the case is closed?”

Gregg slid over the fax paper he had been looking at. “It was Detectives Allen and Hunt. They arrested his foster father, who had a complaint of abuse against him. He's awaiting trial." 

Wendy, who was not going over any of these faxed case files herself, looked up from her notebook. "Where's Holden?" 

"He's in my office, writing a paper," said Bill. "I hope."

"What's the paper about?" 

"Animal Farm.”

Wendy looked at the fax papers. "I feel like this is going to take up your focus instead of profiling," she said. "So maybe I'll go help him. Grab me if something comes up that might change the profile?” 

"Yeah, sure," said Bill, not really hearing what she said. He was still reading the arrest report. "Okay, so... this kid was a frequent runaway, foster dad had prior accusations of abuse. It's a sad story. Might not have anything to do with us, though. I can't help but notice he's not white, either. At least, I don't think?" The fax had come in black and white, and Bill squinted at the school photo.

Tyler was a very young-looking fourteen, skinny, with deep circles under his eyes and a haunted look. Something about looking at him made Bill so furious he couldn't even see straight.

"According to this," Gregg said, gesturing at the thick stack of papers he was leafing through. "Tyler’s mother was an American Indian. Or at least she said she was. But _her_ mother lost American Indian recognition decades ago." 

"What?" Bill furrowed his brow.

"I forget you're not from Virginia," said Gregg. "Back in the '20s they brought in the one-drop rule here, which meant that anybody with even the smallest amount of African-American heritage was legally considered only black, and nothing else. Since a lot of American Indians also had some African-American heritage, they were no longer recognized as American Indians.” 

“Tyler didn’t have a father listed on his birth certificate,” said Jim. “After his mother died, the Upper Mattaponi Tribe wanted him. And Tyler wanted to live with them. But they couldn't prove he had relatives there, and the state didn’t consider him Indian. So he was put in foster care. He was a chronic runaway. Sometimes he’d make it all the way back to tribal land.” 

“A whole tribe wanted him," said Bill. "But instead, the state left him with a foster dad who ultimately beat and stabbed him to death?" 

“_Maybe_ beat and stabbed him to death," said Gregg. "Rose must have had a reason to send this to us.”

Bill felt a sigh coming up from deep inside. "Was he found the same way?"

"Yes." Gregg went leafing through the pages again.

"He wasn't wearing a letter jacket, was he?" Bill asked, hoping against hope. That would really be the only thing linking him to the other deaths.

Gregg slid over a crime scene photo, and sure enough. Poor, skinny, young Tyler Banks lay facedown in the snow, his letter jacket torn and stained in what Bill presumed was blood.

"Jesus," said Bill.

"It wasn't a real letter jacket," said Jim. “It was a kid’s one they sold at K-Mart.” 

"A bit flimsy for November weather," Bill surprised himself by saying. "Is that all he had with him when he ran away?" 

"Looks like it," said Jim. “But I don’t think he ran away this time. The foster family just didn't report him for three days, until they realized this wasn't like the other times." 

Bill frowned down at the crime scene photo. "What evidence did they have to link it to the foster dad? Besides them not reporting him missing." 

Gregg leafed through the pages again. "Rose sent us the whole case file. We haven't really had time to go over it in detail."

"I think the main thing is the dad's previous accusation of assault," said Jim. "Like our other boys, there wasn't much evidence on the body."

Bill grit his teeth and shook his head. “If our guy saw him, I don’t think he would have thought Tyler was white.” 

Jim looked over at the whiteboard, with their rudimentary profile. “They’ve got enough in common otherwise,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t Sammy who was the exception to the rule. Maybe it’s the killer.” 

Bill kept gritting his teeth, looking at the same whiteboard. He did _not_ want to add another boy to the board, and to have another six months of possible victims in between to boot. But… “Stabbing a kid is a pretty big step up from beating one, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” said Gregg.

Bill sighed. “I need to make a phone call.” 

The door to his office was closed, and he didn’t feel right going into Wendy’s without permission. He sat at Gregg’s desk, and got himself on an outside line. 

"Richmond Police Department,” a woman answered.

Bill smiled, hoping it would carry into his words. "Am I speaking to Rose Larson?"

“You sure are,” she said.

"Hi Rose, it's Special Agent Bill Tench calling from the FBI."

"Oh," she said hesitantly. "Good afternoon, Special Agent Tench."

"Rose, is this line being recorded?"

"No, sir."

"Great. I got the package you faxed over. I wanted to say thanks."

A pause. It felt like Rose was straightening up, maybe sighing a little in relief. "You're welcome, sir."

"Now, Rose, I want you to just answer yes or no. Because I don't want you to get in trouble. You weren't allowed to have access to that file, were you?" 

"No, sir."

"Did someone explicitly tell you not to share that file with anyone?"

A brief pause. "No, sir."

"Ah, good. Now, was there a general sentiment that you shouldn't talk about that case with anyone?" 

Another brief pause. "Yes, sir."

"Okay. Well, that's probably a good rule to follow, generally. So we won't talk about it anymore. But I just wanted to say thanks. We're gonna do what we can."

"Um... okay, sir. You're welcome." 

"Great. Now, could you patch me through to Detective Allen, please?" 

Rose put him through. The dial tone pulsed. 

"Hey, Bill!" the older man sounded cheerful when he answered the phone. "How's it going up there?" 

"I'm okay," said Bill. “Starting to get a little cabin fever, though. I need a vacation to someplace far away.” 

“Oh, you’re telling me!” Allen launched into one of his stories, something about his flight attendant daughter bringing him a souvenir from Asia that he got _such a kick_ out of. Bill let him ramble on for a few minutes. 

“That’s really something, Freddie,” said Bill. "Hey listen. I need to talk to you about Tyler Banks."

"Who?" 

"About a year and a half ago... November before last," said Bill. “You and Detective Hunt were on the case. A teenaged boy down there in Richmond, who was stabbed to death."

"Stabbed to death? Another like Christopher?" Allen started to sound a little panicked.

"Yeah," said Bill. "Only you guys thought it was his foster dad. He's awaiting trial right now."

"Oh!" Allen sounded relieved. "Yeah, that piece of shit. Neil Martin. I tell you, that was a rough one. He did a number on that poor kid."

"Yeah, it looks like it," said Bill. "But I'm just curious... what kind of hard evidence did you have linking it to the foster dad?"

“I tell you, Neil Martin is a piece of work,” Allen grumbled. "We'd brought him in before for all sorts of little bar fights and stupid altercations. I don't know how they let him look after kids. I guess his wife seemed okay, but we heard through the grapevine that he'd hit his foster kids before. Tyler wasn't the only one who tried to run away from him."

Bill looked down at his clenched fist, and had to un-clench it with effort. "Through the grapevine? What, from case workers?"

"Well, the case worker we talked to had her suspicions, but no, it was just rumours. One of the kids years ago had said he hit her, and she was sent to a different home. But he got more kids after her, and they never said boo.” 

“Was he ever charged for hitting his foster daughter?” Bill wondered.

“I don’t think so,” said Allen. “I mean, they kept giving him kids. Probably just moved her and were done with it.” 

Bill’s frown got so deep, his face hurt. "So you... I mean, I'm sure you didn't arrest him based on rumours."

"Hold on.” Allen grunted, like he was bending over and digging around in his desk cabinet. "It's been a while since I looked at this case. But you know, you really should talk to Nathan about it. He made all those decisions."

Bill lit a cigarette. Took a moment to choose his words. "What do you mean, Hunt made all the decisions? Wasn't he only a year in as detective?” 

A hesitant pause on the other end. The sound of some papers rustling. "Well..." Allen started. "Hell, I don't know. I remember thinking that stabbing is a bit of a step up from beating. I mean shit, Bill, I don't have to tell _you_, I got my share of whippings from the old man growing up."

"Mmm," Bill took a drag. 

"But stabbing?" Allen started to sound confused. "And I've seen a few cases of dads really hurting their kids. We had one domestic call last year where a little boy ended up with three broken ribs. Mom was in hysterics. That was rough, trying to explain to the dad that he went too far. He just thought he was disciplining his kid, you know? But stabbing, I thought... that's a lot. You gotta _choose_ to do that. Even the girl who got removed from Mr. Martin’s house just said he slapped her around a little too much."

"So what was the evidence that linked him?" Bill asked again.

More papers rustling. "The fact that they waited three days to report him missing was a bit suspicious," said Allen. "I remember I didn't like that at all. Apparently the wife wanted to call it in earlier but he convinced her not to. But then... oh, well, yeah, there's this runaway stuff. Tyler was always taking off. But when he showed up at a friend's place or that Indian reservation, usually someone called the foster parents to let them know he was okay. So I guess I can see them not really getting worried for a few days." 

"There wasn't anything physical?" asked Bill. "Anything forensic that linked Mr. Martin to the murder?"

Allen sighed heavily into the phone. "I tell you, Bill, I'm looking at this map now and realizing how far away from the foster home that dump site was. Completely different part of town. I remember saying to Nathan that if Neil Martin just flew off the handle like that, taking Tyler so far away and dumping him, without getting any blood or anything in his truck— well, I tell you, that would be a stretch." 

"And what did Hunt say?" Bill’s stomach started to clench. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted Hunt to tell him. Cops made mistakes sometimes. He wasn't even 100% they _had_ made a mistake here. He certainly didn't want to defend a dad who hit a foster kid. 

But when his stomach clenched like this, it usually meant something.

"He said..." Bill could imagine Allen frowning, eyes huge behind his thick glasses. "Ah hell, Bill. You should ask him."

"Is he there?" Bill tapped his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray.

"No, he's taking a personal day. That little brother of us got into some kind of trouble, apparently." Allen sniffled. "He just— you know, he'd been my partner for a year at that point, and I know he was young, and kind of green, but he was also really good. Smart. I mean, at this point, I feel like I'd lose my head if Nathan wasn't around to help me keep it screwed on.” 

“Right,” said Bill.

"He didn't feel like a rookie anymore," said Allen. “After a year. I trusted him. I _do_ trust him. But, Bill... oh, shit. Now I'm just remembering that when we heard about Christopher Haddon, I remembered poor Tyler here. And I said to Hunt, I said, 'isn't this kind of like that Indian kid?' And he said, ‘Well, no, Freddie, because that kid's foster father got him.' And we didn't know Christopher was related to those other boys until that stupid newspaper said so. And when you came to visit, I just-- it didn't occur to me."

"But you see what I see, right?" asked Bill. "Unless you have real physical evidence connecting Tyler to his foster dad, or anything from an interview..." 

"No, no," Allen sighed. "That bastard was the toughest interview we ever had. He didn't admit to shit. And he didn't even shed a tear for Tyler. Just talked about him like he was an annoyance. I know that doesn't mean he did it, but... it really made us think he'd done it!"

"It managed to convince the DA, too, apparently," said Bill. "Don't take it too hard."

Allen sighed again. "You should really talk to Nathan about this. I can barely remember it. Now, in hindsight, I see what you see, and maybe I should've pushed harder on it. But I tell you, Bill, that foster dad was a real crumb, and Nathan… I don't know. He was convincing."

"Yeah, I get it," said Bill.

"And anyway... I mean, maybe it's just a coincidence. Tyler died so long ago." 

"Less than a year before our first known victim, Freddie," said Bill. “Kid named Dennis Woods, in Maryland. We just found out about him a little while ago.” 

"Oh, Jesus. Well, still... was he white? Weren't all those other kids white? Isn't that part of what you're looking for?"

"They weren't all white," mumbled Bill. "But they all have other things in common." 

After a long pause, he heard Allen grunting, probably getting up from his seat. "Well, I'm sorry, Bill. I don't know what to say. I wish I had remembered it when you came to visit. It's like every day I get worse at remembering basic shit. I gotta retire here, I tell you." 

"Do you happen to know when this Martin guy's trial is supposed to be?" 

"Not off the top of my head," said Allen. "I could find out."

"That's okay, don't worry about it." Bill scribbled in his notepad.

"How'd you find out about Tyler, anyway?" asked Allen. 

"A journalist called me," said Bill. "He thought it looked similar to the other ones in the paper, and he wanted to get our take on it."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I haven't called him back. I’m not going to tell him shit."

Allen laughed. After a bit more small talk, they hung up, leaving Bill with that queasy feeling. He agreed with Allen— Hunt had never really seemed like a rookie. He was a good detective. Bill wondered if they just hadn't dug through the case files hard enough to find that evidence. 

On the other hand, if this was sent to them cold without a suspect already awaiting trial, Bill would be pretty convinced that Tyler Banks was victim number one.

He went back to the boardroom. Gregg and Jim had rearranged the corkboard so Tyler was in front of Dennis chronologically.

"What'd they say?" asked Jim.

Bill shook his head, plopping himself down in one of the chairs, his back to the door. "One of the detectives wasn't in. The one I spoke to said he couldn't quite remember how it all went down."

“Was it Freddie Allen?" Gregg asked. When Bill nodded, he frowned. "He must be taking it hard." 

"I didn't outright say they were wrong. But he knew why I was calling. In any case, he didn't remember any specific physical evidence that linked them to the foster father. But at the time, he was pretty convinced."

"It's usually someone in the family," said Jim. "It's not a bad theory." He looked up, and smiled, his gaze falling somewhere past Bill's head. 

Bill turned to look.

Holden peeked in, mostly hidden by the door. Spying. 

“Jesus, kid. After what I said at lunch?”

“I’m not eavesdropping,” Holden insisted. “I’m not snooping. I’m just…” He put a hand on the doorway, clutching at it. “I’m stuck.”

“Stuck with what?” 

“My homework,” said Holden. “Isn’t there anything I can help with? I can… stuff envelopes, or file something?”

“No, Holden,” said Bill. 

“Come on,” whined Holden.

Jim sat, leaning back in his seat, smiling. Gregg also smiled, the two of them watching Bill with amusement. Bill glared at them.

“Wendy said she was going to help you,” he said.

“She did.” Holden straightened up, got brighter. “She helped me with my book report, and now I have a really good outline. But then she got a phone call. And typing it is taking too long, so I’m going to write it out later.” He pouted again. “This is math. I hate it.” 

“So are you stuck, or do you just hate it?” asked Bill. 

Holden hung his head.

“You have to do your homework, Holden.”

“Who cares?” Holden mumbled. “I’m never going to use math.” 

“Yes you will,” said Bill. “You use math every day as an adult.”

“No you don’t,” said Holden. He gestured at the board. “That’s not math.”

“I use math to pay the mortgage,” said Bill.

“Nancy pays the mortgage,” Holden shot back.

Bill glared at him. “Nancy uses math to pay the mortgage, you little smart mouth.”

“You think she uses a lot of _polynomials_ for that?” Holden muttered haughtily.

Bill closed his eyes and took a breath. He couldn’t lose it at work. He tried to remember that Holden had gone through a lot lately, that he was acting so childishly earlier because he was probably overwhelmed. He was in a new place and had met a lot of new people, and he wasn’t usually around so many adults. 

When Brian got overwhelmed like this, he’d have one of his big tantrums. When Holden got overwhelmed, he'd get smart mouthed and snippy, and if it kept going, he'd have one of his mini-tantrums. Bill had to tread lightly. 

It didn’t help that he couldn’t remember what polynomials were. 

“I can help you, Holden,” said Gregg. “You’re in what? Tenth grade?”

“Ninth grade,” Holden mumbled.

“Algebra?” asked Gregg, rising from his seat. 

“Pre-algebra,” Holden mumbled, even quieter. “I’m still catching up with math.” 

“I thought your oldest was only twelve,” said Bill.

“She is,” Gregg said proudly. “But she’s on the short-list for the Math Olympiad team, and doing math at a tenth grade level.”

_Math Olympiad?_ Bill mouthed at Jim, who chuckled.

“Come on Holden, I’ll help you.” Gregg got to the doorway and patted Holden on the shoulder. 

“Uh…” Holden hesitated.

“Go on,” said Bill. “Listen to Agent Smith. Be good.”

Holden stared at Bill, his mouth flat and unhappy. He looked between Bill and Jim, like he was trying to think of a strategy. When he couldn’t think of one, he pouted. Turned and followed Gregg back to Bill’s office. 

“Jesus,” Bill muttered.

Jim chuckled again. “He’s just excited to spend time with you. It’s cute.”

“I don’t think he likes being called cute. I said it once and it made him pretty sad.”

“You called him cute?” Jim looked confused.

“No,” Bill snorted. He told Jim the story about Holden revving the engine at some girls in the crosswalk, and how they had laughed at him.

Jim laughed now, but hopefully for a different reason. “That _is_ cute,” he said. 

“Yeah, but not the way he wanted,” said Bill.

“It’s better girls thinking he’s cute than thinking he’s creepy.” 

“True enough,” said Bill. 

“That’s got to be an adjustment for you,” said Jim. “To go from no kids to two kids overnight. And one of them’s a teenager.” 

“Yeah, it’s… it’s a real…” Bill sighed. “He got suspended. That’s why he’s here.”

“Really.” Jim looked thoughtful. “I assumed it was a teacher’s development day or something. He seems like such a…”

“Dork?” offered Bill.

Jim frowned. “No, I was going to say… a good kid. He seems like a good kid. Even with the, uh… the interest in all this.” He looked up at the board of dead boys.

“Yeah,” said Bill.

“But we have that interest, too.”

“Yeah,” said Bill. He looked over at Jim, let the silence hang for a little while. “Does it get easier? With a teenager?” 

“How do you mean?”

“I mean the… I don’t know. There’s so much tension.”

Jim looked thoughtful. “Well, he’s a foster. I don’t have any experience with that, but it must be different than with a kid you’ve known since the beginning. Anyway, my oldest is eleven. We are definitely girding ourselves.”

Bill chuckled. “You’ve got… two boys and a girl?” 

“Two girls and a boy,” said Jim. “The boy’s in the middle.” 

“Huh.”

“I think it’s good that way,” said Jim. “Each of them have something special about them. My son’s not going to be overlooked for being in the middle.” 

“Yeah,” said Bill. “I’ve heard about that happening.” 

Jim was quiet again for a while. “My father used to sort of… pit us against each other. We were all boys. My oldest brother was his favourite, and he set the bar for the rest of us. We had to be as good or better than my brother to be worth anything. And it wasn’t great for my oldest brother, either. To be put on a pedestal like that. We didn’t really… get to be ourselves.” 

Bill leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. Looked up at the whiteboard with the sketch of their profile on it. 

“But…” Jim cleared his throat. “I’m trying not to be the same way. And I thought having girls would be different. But my wife pointed out to me the other day that I’ve sort of been doing the same thing. Kind of putting my oldest girl on a pedestal.” He shook his head. “That was hard to hear. I’ve spent all these years saying I’m going to be different than my old man, but it’s like every day I get closer to becoming him.” 

Bill snorted. “Yeah, I get that.” 

Jim looked between Bill and the whiteboard, letters spelling out _DEAD BROTHER_ with an angry red line beside them. “What were you thinking there?” 

Bill tried not to grunt as his stomach clenched again. “I think it’s like that for our guy. What you were saying. Maybe. When he was little, he had an older brother he looked up to. Who was maybe the parents’ favourite.” 

Jim nodded. “Maybe he was a star athlete.”

“Yeah,” said Bill, and he couldn’t say much more because his throat was getting tight.

“And maybe the older brother died,” Jim filled in. “And the unsub…” He furrowed a brow.

“The unsub had to fill the hole in the family,” Bill said, after coughing a bit. “He had to live up to the impossible standards set by his brother. He replaced his brother. Inherited a role he didn’t want.”

Jim smirked. “Like the King of England.”

“What?”

“The King of England,” Jim said. “He’s dead now. His older brother was supposed to be king, but he stepped down—”

“To marry that American broad,” Bill said, vaguely remembering this story from his childhood. 

“Yeah,” said Jim. “So the little brother inherits an entire country.”

“Right on the verge of war, too,” said Bill. 

“Maybe he wanted it, I don’t know. But it seems like a lot of responsibility to be foisted on you.” 

“Was he the guy with the stammer?” 

“One and the same.”

“Huh.” Bill stared at the whiteboard, until the red letters started to blur. “I guess dumb family bullshit happens to everyone.”

Jim and Bill spent another two hours digging deep into the Tyler Banks case file. As Bill halfway suspected, they didn’t find any indication of hard evidence linking Tyler’s death to his foster father, Neil Martin. It was all circumstantial— Neil’s flimsy alibis in the timeframe of the murder, his reluctance to report Tyler missing, and his alleged abuse of a previous foster daughter. 

The other remarkable thing about the case was the sheer brutality of the attack on Tyler. Compared to him, the other boys were almost treated gently— they didn’t have any bruising, except on their wrists in some cases. This kid was in a struggle that went on for hours, and he fought until the bitter end.

“This must be his first,” said Bill. “He wasn’t ready. He planned the dump site and the kill site, but not much else. He was too eager to enact his fantasy.” 

“He picked such a skinny, small kid,” said Jim. “He must not have expected Tyler to be able to put up such a fight.” 

“He thought it would be easier.”

“Maybe was in the middle of planning something better when he saw Tyler. And it was that jacket. It just set him off.” 

“Like a red flag in front of a bull,” agreed Bill. “The other boys… after this, he waits, he plans. He’s able to be more methodical. The boys he chose that didn’t have letter jackets were also the most athletic looking. That was the fantasy he wanted, but he must’ve known they’d put up an even bigger fight than poor Tyler.” 

“So he started plying them with alcohol.”

“Then how’d he get Tyler to begin with?” 

“If Tyler _was_ trying to get to tribal land, he could've been hitchhiking," said Jim. "Maybe the unsub was too impulsive. Jumped the gun?”

Bill frowned at the crime scene photo. “I really hope there’s no more victims in between Tyler and Dennis. And if there isn’t… then the struggle with Tyler must have really spooked him. He got a taste of his fantasy, but at what cost?”

“He must’ve been injured,” said Jim. “The bruising on Tyler’s knuckles tells me that his killer must have been pretty banged up, too.”

“We should look at hospital records,” said Bill. “See if anyone came in with a broken nose.”

“Only found one blood type on Tyler, though.”

“That would’ve helped his foster dad, I guess.” Bill sighed. “I was thinking he was injured or otherwise frightened off until his urge got too strong again, when he found Dennis. But maybe he knew they were looking at the foster dad.” 

“Waited until they charged him.” Jim nodded. “They close the case, they’re not going to look for anyone else. Even if the foster dad isn’t convicted. It would take a lot of doing to get the police to re-open the case.” 

Bill kept staring at Tyler Bank's lifeless body. “He started too fast. He’d been nursing this fantasy for a while, and then he suddenly couldn’t wait anymore.” A thought twinged at the back of his head. He scanned the corkboard until he saw the estimated date of Tyler’s murder. Mid-November, 1975. “What happens in November?”

“Well,” said Jim. “Election Day, sometimes. Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving,” Bill echoed. “There’s football on Thanksgiving.”

“That’s true. High school football, too. At least at my school. Football in the fall and winter, baseball in the spring.” 

Bill frowned, more memories tugging at the side of his brain. “That’s right. Season starts in September. Championships in November.”

“Or December,” added Jim. “Some high schools have rivalry games around Thanksgiving, too.” 

Bill got up and wrote _high school football— 1975??_ on the whiteboard. “Something triggered this at that exact time. Our guy wasn’t ready, but something happened to him that set it all off.” 

“He must’ve been terrified afterwards,” said Jim. “It didn’t go the way he planned.”

“You’re telling me.” Bill looked again at poor Tyler Banks' dead body, and swallowed against a tightness in his throat. “This was a fucking gimmie.” 

—

When they had exhausted all the new information they could glean out of the Tyler Banks files, Bill went back out to the bullpen. Gregg gathered his things at his desk. Behind him, Bill’s door stood open, and Bill got a glimpse of Wendy in there with Holden. 

“How’d the math lesson go?” asked Bill.

Gregg beamed at him. “Oh, great,” he said. “He’s like a sponge. He caught on really fast, once I found a way to explain it to him that he could understand.”

“Oh,” blinked Bill. “Well, great. Thanks. We were worried about his math.”

“Anytime, Bill. Thanks for letting me do that, it was a fun break from work.” Gregg shrugged his coat on. “Holden’s a real sweet kid. And he _loves_ you. He kept talking about how great you are.” 

“Shucks,” Bill said drily.

Gregg blinked at him, taken aback. “It’s not easy to get a foster kid to trust you. Especially one his age. My sister could tell you stories.” He picked up his briefcase. “He was saying that somebody at school stole one of his Matchbox cars, and you got it back? It’s really nice that he has someone sticking up for him like that. It’s one of the most important things a dad can do for his kid.” 

Bill’s stomach was really bothering him. He shouldn’t have gotten McDonald’s. “Thanks, Gregg. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He edged into the room, deciding not to interrupt Holden and Wendy’s conversation. Holden scribbled in a notebook— a regular one, not his super secret death book— while Wendy talked.

“It’s called the Dialectic of Sex,” she said. “It’s a feminist critique of Freud. It’s basically all about how the nuclear family structure is inherently oppressive.” She glanced up at Bill and winked. “Maybe don’t let Bill catch you reading that one. It’s also a _Marxist_ critique of Freud.” 

Bill shrugged. “What could I possibly have against a Marxist critique of anything?” 

“Thanks, Dr. Carr,” Holden said breathlessly. “I’m going to read all of these. Starting with…” he consulted his list. “The Mask of Sanity.” 

“After you finish your math homework,” said Wendy. 

Holden mumbled something Bill couldn’t hear. 

Wendy patted Bill’s shoulder as she left the room. 

“Thanks, Wen,” he said. “I owe you a drink.” 

“My pleasure,” she said. “He’s not what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she went back to her own office. “Not that.” 

—

Holden would Not. Shut. Up. On the drive home. 

“I had a really good time today, Bill,” he said. “Dr. Carr is very smart. She had so many fascinating things to say. She gave me a great list of books to read. And she’s written a book, too!”

“Uh huh,” said Bill.

“Dr. Carr is a professor of psychology,” Holden went on, like Bill didn’t know that already. “It sounds like a much more interesting field than I thought. She studied something called _forensic_ psychology, too, which I hadn’t even heard of before. I think she’s a lot smarter than my therapist.”

“Yeah.” Bill lit a cigarette. “She’s smarter than most people, so probably.” 

“I can take psychology as an elective next year,” said Holden. “Although I am really interested in forensics too, just on their own. But I think you need science and math for that. Agent Smith was very helpful today, but I still don’t think I like math very much.” He turned in his seat to look at Bill. “Agent Smith said he had a classics and philosophy degree, which surprised me. Well, I didn’t know what classics were, but still. Is that a useful degree for an FBI agent?” 

“His dad went to law school with the unit chief,” said Bill.

“Oh.” Holden blinked a little, then turned to face forward. 

“Gregg’s still a good agent,” said Bill.

“The unit chief went to law school,” Holden blathered on, like he hadn’t heard Bill at all. “So law would be a good degree if I wanted to join the FBI?”

“A lot of degrees are good,” said Bill. “And probably cheaper than law. Any kind of science is useful. Languages. Computers, now… I mean, the brass are dragging their feet on that, but I have a feeling we’re going to be using a lot more computers soon enough.” 

In reality, it was Melissa who had brought up the idea of using computers to put all their files in an easily-searchable catalogue. Bill had balked at the idea, and the cost. It had taken Melissa and Calvin most of a day to explain that they didn’t mean the room-sized magnetic tape behemoths that Bill was thinking of, but something that could fit on a desk. Melissa, who had interned at the Department of Defense as a student, also tried to explain ARPANET to Bill, but he couldn't wrap his head around it.

“Computers,” Holden said, wonderingly. “I would have to learn to type faster.”

“Well, you can practice this weekend,” said Bill. He had borrowed the typewriter from work so Holden could type up his book report. 

“Yes. Thank you, Bill. I think I’ll see if there’s a computer elective next year, too. I’d like to learn more about that. And psychology. And forensics. What degree do you have, Bill?” 

“Criminology.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. How old do you have to be to join the FBI?”

Bill sighed. “Twenty-three,” he said.

“Oh,” said Holden. “Well, it would probably take me a long time to finish a degree anyway. Or maybe I can get more than one degree? If I can find a way to pay for them. Maybe I’ll do psychology and… computers.” 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” said Bill. “It’s okay to just study things you like and figure it out later. You have to finish high school first, anyway.”

“Yes,” said Holden. “You were right Bill, I should take school more seriously. Dr. Carr really helped me understand that. I see now that I have to get my grades up. And join some clubs. And maybe a team, like you wanted, Bill. It would look good if I was on a team, right?”

“Sure,” said Bill. “But, you know. Don’t drive yourself crazy. Let’s focus on one thing at a time.” 

“I just want to make sure I am prepared to be the best agent I can be,” said Holden. “Like you, Bill.” 

“Look, kid,” said Bill. “You can be the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. You can’t be both. You understand?”

“Yes,” said Holden. Then: “No. What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Bill, exhaling a long plume. “That you can be excellent like one British rock band, or excellent like a different British rock band. You can’t be excellent in two fields at once. Master one thing first.”

Holden furrowed his brow. “Can I be the Doors?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Yes, you can be the Doors. But Jim Morrison’s dead, so he’s not making ground-breaking music anymore, and that’s why they’re not part of the analogy.”

Holden looked out the window thoughtfully. He turned back to Bill. “Who wrote Paint it Black?"

Bill took another drag on his cigarette. “The Rolling Stones.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the Rolling Stones,” Holden said, straightening up in his seat. 

_Jesus_, thought Bill. _The balls on this kid._

“I think I know what I want to use my gift certificate on,” Holden continued. “My Christmas gift. I’d like to use it to buy Dr. Carr’s book.” 

“I don’t think they’ll have it at that bookstore,” said Bill, flicking his cigarette out the window. “It’s kind of academic.” 

“Maybe they can order it for me.” 

“Mmm,” Bill grunted. “You should buy something else with that gift certificate. I’ll get Wendy to give me a copy of her book for you.”

Holden’s shoulders, as usual, went up. “Thanks, Bill.” 

Bill glanced at him. “Why haven’t you used that gift certificate already, anyway? You can use it for anything. You got your own money now, and the library card. You can always get more books later.”

Holden took a long time to answer. “I want to use it on something special.”

Well, who could argue with that. Bill turned the radio on to the oldies station. The Marvelettes sang that Postman song. 

Holden leaned his head against the window. He hummed along until he fell asleep.


	20. Antoine Ellis, Dumfries, VA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill gets some unfortunate professional news, and some unfortunate personal news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Talking about stillbirth.

Holden talked Nancy’s ear off about his visit to the FBI Academy at dinner on Friday night. She was smiling pretty big while he talked, though, so Bill thought maybe she didn’t find it so annoying.

“I couldn’t get him interested in math at all,” she said as she put on her beauty creams later that night. “But if someone else can reach him, maybe we should get him a tutor after all. At least so he gets through summer school. I don’t suppose Gregg wants a part-time job?” 

“I don’t think that’s actually the issue,” said Bill. He sat up in bed with some racing forms, squinting through his smudgy glasses. “I think Holden was trying to impress people at work, so he was actually paying attention for once. He just has to stay focused like that at school.”

“Well, the problem with Holden,” said Nancy, getting into bed. “Is that if he’s not good at something right away, and he starts to struggle, he loses interest. Disengages. This happens a lot with gifted kids.” She gave Bill a pointed look. 

“What? I wasn’t a gifted kid.”

"Okay,” she said. “Listen, Bill. I want to talk to you about Brian’s appointment.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bill put away the betting forms and tried to give Nancy his full attention, even though he was really tired. 

Nancy sat up straight against the headboard, curls bouncing. “The specialist said Brian is actually doing pretty well, considering the circumstances. He’s hitting more milestones than I thought. He says he can probably start kindergarten in the fall, if we can get him caught up.”

Bill wasn’t aware there was any question that Brian would start kindergarten in the fall. “Caught up with what?” 

“With his vocabulary,” said Nancy, a huge smile spreading over her face. “But this is good. Bill... Brian talked _so much_ during that session.” 

“Really?”

“Well, compared to usual. Still not as much as a four-year-old should. But the specialist just... had this way of asking Brian questions that got him to answer.” 

“Well, that’s good,” said Bill. “Now we know he _can_ talk, he just doesn’t want to.” 

“The specialist said we should keep doing these sessions to get him to come out of his shell.”

“More sessions?”

“So we can learn how to get Brian to talk. The way the specialist does.” 

Bill tried to keep his tone light. “How much will it cost?”

“I think it’ll be worth it, if it means he’s all caught up when he starts school. Also, Bill, I think we should go to sessions with him together.” 

“Together,” Bill repeated. 

“The specialist showed me something interesting.” She put her finger on her chin thoughtfully. “You know how Brian does the same stuff all the time when he plays? It’s his blocks or his trucks or his rabbit, he never changes it up? Most kids do imaginative play by nature, but the specialist said kids like Brian have to be _shown_ how to do imaginative play. But they can pick it up really fast.”

“Kids like Brian?” Bill frowned. 

Nancy’s mood changed on a dime. Her smile faded, and her eyes darkened. “Yes, Bill. Kids like Brian.”

“... Adopted kids?”

“Are you being obtuse on purpose?”

“I just mean… our son’s not _defective_.”

“I never said he was, Bill.”

“But... you want us to go to sessions together with this specialist so he can... teach us how to play with our kid? It sounds like a scam, Nance.”

Nancy lay back and pulled the cover up to her shoulders with a jerk. 

“I really just think he needs more time to settle in,” said Bill. “I mean, look at Holden, his attitude turned all the way around.”

“Yeah, because you got his car back. Because _you_ showed _him_ that you could be trusted. I don’t know if we’ve done that with Brian yet.”

Bill furrowed his brow. “Brian is four years old. He doesn’t think about stuff like trust. All he cares about is his little rabbit and his little trucks.” 

Nancy’s jaw worked, like she was grinding her teeth. “Okay, Bill, fine. I said I’d run it by you, and I did.”

“So... no more specialists?” Bill hedged. 

“Why are you so against the idea?” Nancy’s voice was very soft. 

“I’m not against the idea,” said Bill, but really, he was thinking of how Kemper, Brudos, Rissell, and others like them had been shuttled around institutions throughout their childhoods. “I just think Brian has had a very eventful first few years of his life. And now we know he can speak more if he needs to, so maybe... he just needs some time to rest. Maybe just wait until he starts kindergarten in the fall, and we’ll see how he does then.”

“Half a year is a long time when you’re four, Bill,” said Nancy. “You’re supposed to develop fast. Faster than he’s going.”

Bill looked down at the bedspread. 

“There’s a play group at a community hall in Alexandria,” Nancy went on. “The specialist recommended it. Some of his students run it. If you don’t want to go to the specialist with us, then I’m going to take him to this playgroup. It’s free.” Her tone indicated that she didn’t want to hear any arguments about it.

“Okay,” said Bill, though he quietly thought that if a bunch of students were running the group, they were probably studying the kids there, and he didn’t like that at all.

“The thing is, it’s on Wednesday afternoons. So I won’t be back in time to take Holden to therapy.” 

“Oh.” 

Nancy turned on her side and looked up at him. “He could take the bus,” she said. “Before all this business with the suspension, I would have said it was okay. He knows how to get there by now. What do you think?” 

“How long did we say he was grounded for?”

“Same as the suspension. So, Monday. But even if he was still grounded, he’d have to go to therapy.”

Bill mulled it over. “I’d have to be here by, when? 5:30?”

“At the latest,” said Nancy. 

“Every Wednesday?” Bill sighed. “If it was Friday I could at least justify cutting work early.”

“Justify,” Nancy muttered. She rolled onto her other side, facing away from him. 

“Well... how about two weeks,” offered Bill. “I’ll take him this Wednesday and next Wednesday, and then he can start taking the bus.” 

“Do you trust him?” 

“Yeah,” said Bill, after a moment. “I think so. And he likes his therapist.”

Nancy’s laugh was muffled by her pillow. “Remember when he wanted to take the bus to Lynchburg on his own?” 

Bill felt a small smile tug at his lips. “Yeah.” It was only three months ago, but it felt like years.

\--

Bill went into work early on Wednesday, just so he could say so to Wendy when he left early without having to get into it. Holden was ready at home when he got there, eating a snack in an otherwise perfectly clean kitchen.

Holden claimed he had finished his homework for the day, and seemed eager to spend time in the car with Bill. He asked how the case was going— Bill didn’t answer, obviously— and pulled at the sleeves of his winter coat, which was starting to get a little too short on him. Thankfully the weather was warming up, Bill thought.

There was a diner a block down from Holden’s therapist’s office where Bill got himself supper, and went over his notes for a deposition he had the next day.

“You want to try driving home?” Bill offered Holden when he met him outside the therapist’s office. He didn’t think Holden would say yes, but he asked because he had eaten his diner meatloaf too fast, and he was feeling kind of nauseated.

Holden had that blank, confused face on, looking at the car for a few solid seconds. “Um, no thank you, Bill,” he said. “Maybe another day?”

“All right,” said Bill.

Holden wasn’t quite as talkative or bright on the ride home after therapy. He looked out his window and seemed a little smaller.

“You don’t have to come home early and drive me all the time,” he finally said, his voice very soft. “I could take the bus.”

“Nancy and I talked about that,” said Bill. “And we were both more comfortable with me driving you. Just for another week.”

Holden wrung his hands in his lap.

“It’s just a little close to you getting suspended for wandering off,” said Bill. “Now, I trust you, but it’s gonna take Nancy a little bit longer. Okay?”

Holden hung his head.

“How about this,” offered Bill. “I’ll drive you next week. Then after that, you can do whatever you want after school. Take the bus to therapy, and I’ll come pick you up. _But_, you have to drive us home. Deal?”

Holden slowly lifted his head, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I don’t have to drive next week, right?”

“Nope. But starting the week after that…”

Holden sighed a very heavy, long-suffering teenaged sigh. “Okay, Bill.” He wiggled around in his seat, pulling again at the sleeves of his coat. “Um… did you… what did you say to Mrs. Reid when you got my car back?”

Bill hesitated for a moment. Holden had been back at school two days, and he figured he would have heard something by now if there had been any developments on the Mrs. Reid front. He had planned to make serious on his threats to contact other parents and the school board, if it came to it, but he had honestly forgotten about it.

As usual, work had a way of knocking everything else out of his brain.

“Why?” he hedged. “Did she say something?”

“I’m just curious,” said Holden.

Bill lit a cigarette. The car was so quiet he could hear the paper burning. “I… talked to her for a bit until I could get her to admit what she’d done.”

Holden stared at him with that big-eyed stare. “How did you do that?”

Bill sighed, grey smoke filling the car. He cracked open a window. “I do this thing sometimes with subjects—”

“Subjects?”

Bill coughed. “The prisoners I talk to. And also suspects, sometimes. I do this thing where I kind of pretend I’m their friend. I did that with her.”

Holden’s eyes widened in awe. “Wow,” he said. He was quiet for a long moment. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. I can’t even make a _real_ friend.”

“You have those girls you were talking about.”

Holden looked out the window. He sniffled, and his shoulders went up a little bit. “Yeah, that’s what Dr. Jones said, too.”

Bill looked over at the kid quickly. “Why do you ask? Did Mrs. Reid say something? Or try to do something?”

Holden straightened a little, his face softened. “She’s not there anymore. She took an early retirement.”

Bill restrained himself from laughing. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah. Debbie said she just didn’t show up one day. The principal said she was retired and they had a substitute. Nobody said anything else about it.”

Bill didn’t know what to say, or how to react. He was pretty happy that sanctimonious old bitch wasn’t around anymore, but he didn’t think he should show it. “How’s the substitute?”

“I don’t know. Fine.” Holden stared at Bill unblinkingly. “It was because of you, right?”

“I don’t know,” said Bill. “People retire for all sorts of reasons.”

After a long while, Holden dropped his gaze, smiling softly. “I just wanted… you…” He sighed. “Thank you, Bill.”

“You already said thanks,” said Bill.

“Yeah, but I— I feel like…” He sighed again. “Dr. Jones said that you probably already knew how thankful I was, but it would be good for me to, um… find a way to… to say it—”

“Kid,” said Bill, starting to panic a bit. “It’s okay.”

“No, Bill,” Holden said forcefully. “You don’t…” he grunted in frustration, crossing his arms and glaring out the window.

“Someone stole your toy and I got it back,” said Bill. “It’s not that big a deal. I’m in law enforcement. I don’t like it when people steal.”

“It’s not that,” said Holden, his voice strained. “You believed me. Even Nancy didn’t believe me. And then you stood up to a teacher and got it back for me.” He pressed his face against the window, back to Bill, sniffling. “And you apologized for scaring me. No one’s ever done that, either. They would just—” his breath hitched, and he snapped his mouth shut with an audible crack.

_They would always what?_ thought Bill, his head getting hot, his grip getting tight on the wheel. _Who is they?!_

“I just wanted to say that,” said Holden. “I’m trying to be better and I’m trying to be good, and I feel like you didn’t see that it was because of you, and it’s because I’m really grateful. So thank you.” He sniffled.

Bill’s chest started to hurt.

“Let’s get some Kentucky Fried Chicken,” he said loudly, even though he had already eaten.

\--

Spring came fast in April. Bill arrived at work one morning after a warm shower, and the water was starting to evaporate as he walked in. The air was already swampy, the threat of a hot, sticky East Coast summer on the horizon. A hot, sticky summer was just the way Bill liked it.

But at this point in his career, he should have known better than to ever walk into work in a good mood. 

Another boy had been found murdered. Sixteen-year-old Antoine Ellis in Dumfries, a sleepy little town Bill passed by every day on his commute to work.

“I think our rule about killers staying in their race is completely out the window now,” said Bill, glaring murderously at the corkboard. Antoine Ellis was black, with no room for anyone thinking otherwise.

“I think calling it a _rule_ is a little specious,” said Wendy. “A lot of our subjects don’t follow it. And you yourself brought theories that linked these boys to the killer’s psychology far more intimately than race alone.”

Bill looked over at the profile on the whiteboard, to which very little had been added over the past week. “I suppose. I can’t say it feels very good being right, though.”

Antoine looked a little young for his age, but he was no slouch. A member of his school’s baseball team, he was leaner and more wiry than any “quarterback” would have a right to be, but he was certainly tall and strong and healthy and fit. He wasn’t wearing his letter jacket at the time of his murder, but he had a school sweater on, which Bill felt was close enough.

Intoxicated. Bound. Stabbed. 

Dead.

Bill heaved a big sigh, looking at the growing gallery of kids on the cork board. The whole team was gathered in the boardroom. As usual, Wendy was the only one not feverishly digging through the case files.

“Our old friend Hilde Slováček’s taken the case,” said Jim.

“No kidding?” Dumfries, like Manassas, was too small for its own homicide unit, and within Prince William County. “Well, that’ll help.”

“Sure hope so. Though I did ask if there was anything new on the Raza case, and she hasn’t gotten back yet.”

Bill frowned.

“She found something that she seems pretty excited about.” Jim flipped through the papers. “There was some kind of white powder on Antoine’s knees. It’s not cocaine, and it’s not drywall. Not sure how she was able to rule that out so quickly, unless she tasted it.”

Gregg made a face. 

“Lab’s going to take a while figuring it out,” said Jim. 

“Hell,” scoffed Bill. “If they can give us something that actually points us to a living, breathing human being, and not just a hypothetical character we’ve created, it’ll be worth however long it takes.” His eyes scanned over Christopher Haddon. “The last one was a month ago. Is he getting more frequent?”

“At least they found this one fast,” said Jim. “Coroner puts his death at Sunday night.”

“Is there something happening this week?” Bill wondered. “Anything that might make him freak out?”

Jim and Wendy shared blank glances.

“It’s Holy Week,” Gregg offered. “Last Sunday was Palm Sunday.”

“Jesus, what is it with these assholes and Easter?” Bill spat. “It’s always fucking Easter.”

“Who?” asked Jim. “That guy who killed his family? Ruppert or something?”

“Him,” Bill nodded. “And a bunch of other weirdos. Ed Kemper killed his _mother_ on Good Friday.”

“Really?” Gregg’s eyes went huge.

“I don’t think that was on purpose,” said Wendy. “And we have no reason to believe this was on purpose, either.”

“Are there any sports happening around Easter?” Bill asked the room.

“Basketball season’s wrapping up,” said Jim. “Football’s been done for a while. Lots of family stuff around Easter, though, I’d imagine?”

“You don’t do Easter, Jim?” asked Bill.

“We’re Baptist. Every Sunday is Resurrection Sunday,” Jim said, mouth curling up on one side.

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m sure Nancy will make us go to an Easter service. But I can’t say I’m very observant, in both meanings of the word. And I’m assuming…” Bill leaned back in his chair, looking over at Wendy.

She shrugged.

“Well, if you’re Catholic, your family could go to a long mass every day this week,” said Gregg. “If you wanted.”

“What was Sunday, again?” asked Bill.

“Palm Sunday. It’s a big one.” Gregg folded his hands on the table, looking like a schoolboy. “Today, Holy Tuesday, is the day Jesus predicted his death. Tomorrow is Spy Wednesday, when Judas arranged his betrayal. We usually go to an evening mass, for Tenebrae. We extinguish all the candles to mark the darkness of the season.”

Jim looked to be suppressing a smirk. “I thought Baptists were dramatic. Y’all sound downright witchy.”

Wendy said nothing, sipping at her tea.

Gregg smiled good-naturedly. “People think Christmas is the most important holiday, but it’s not. Easter is far more important. But most people just do Palm Sunday and the Easter Vigil… and maybe Maundy Thursday.”

Bill lit a cigarette, and gave Gregg an indulgent _go on_ gesture.

“Maundy Thursday was the Last Supper. We wash each other’s feet. On Good Friday we fast, and there isn’t a regular mass, but there is the Three Hours of Agony in the middle of the day.”

“Good Lord,” said Jim.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” said Gregg. “Most people don’t go to that. Then we do the Stations of the Cross, that’s a big one, too. My church always gets the kids involved in that, it’s very family focused.”

Some of this sounded vaguely familiar to Bill, but he hadn’t been to anything but the occasional half-assed Sunday service for years, until they got the boys at Christmas.

“Easter Vigil on Saturday is another… very big one. You start in darkness. They light and bless the Easter fire, everyone gets candles. And then…” Gregg smiled beatifically. “Christ is risen. Candles light up the place. There’s singing, and incense, and people get baptized.” He took a breath. “Then Sunday, you spend time with your family.”

Wendy looked over the top of her teacup to the whiteboard. “I don’t think you’ve ever identified a religious angle on any of the cases you’ve consulted on, Bill.”

“No.” He took a slow drag on his cigarette.

“And, now that I think about it, religion has actually factored less into our interview subjects than one might assume,” she went on, brow furrowed.

“I’m just trying to think of potential triggers,” said Bill, stubbing out his cigarette. “Our profile’s too broad. Calvin and Melissa are pulling about a million records trying to dig through them to find ones that match.”

“And that’s only from people with prior arrests,” Jim added.

“His first victim was around Thanksgiving, which is a family holiday,” said Bill. “A lot of people hate Thanksgiving. Now he seems to be getting more frequent, which freaks me out. I’m trying to think of why.”

“You could have family pressure this time of year even if you’re not religious,” said Gregg.

“It could be… cultural, instead,” Wendy added.

“Agent Tench?” Melissa interrupted, poking her head into the boardroom. “Call for you. It’s your sister. She says it’s urgent.” 

Bill frowned. His sister? He didn’t even think she knew about the BSU. 

“Just a second, guys.” He slipped out of the boardroom. “You sure it wasn’t Nancy?” Melissa would know Nancy’s voice by now.

“Why would Nancy say she was your sister?” asked Melissa. “She called in through the switchboard. Been routed all over the place. Somebody up there thinks you’re still with organized crime. She’s on line three.”

Bill closed the door to his office. His hand hovered over the phone receiver for a moment. He sighed. Picked it up.

“Special Agent Bill Tench,” he said, still halfway hoping it wasn’t her.

“Bill,” she said. “It’s me.” 

He sat down. Swallowed a sigh. “Maggie.” 

“Bill…” she hesitated a moment. Then she just spat it out. “Dad’s dead.”

Nothing happened. His office was dark and quiet, and the silence just sat there.

After a moment, he suddenly started breathing again. “Uh,” he said. “Okay.”

An indignant puff of air. That’s always how Maggie sounded when she sighed. “I thought you should know.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

His office was _very_ dark. Concrete wall on one side, flimsy partition on the other. No natural light.

“Uh… how?”

Another long exhale. Maggie was probably smoking. She was probably standing in her kitchen, frowning that deep frown of hers.

It had been many years since Bill had seen his sister smile. At least, not while he was around.

“He had another blockage,” she said. “They went to operate last night. He died on the table.”

“Oh.”

“He was asleep,” she said. “So I guess he didn’t feel anything.”

“Yeah.”

The seconds ticked by. Tick, tick, tick.

“Funeral’s on Friday,” said Maggie.

“Well, I…” Bill found himself shaking his head. “I can’t go. Not if it’s this week. I have work.” 

“We all have work,” said Maggie. “Who the fuck do you think you are? I know you’re mad about the Owen thing, but he was your father. He was really sick, Bill, and you never even called.” 

“Maggie, I’m not going to talk to you if you’re going to be like that.”

“Oh, fuck you, Bill,” she spat. “Leave it all to me, just like always. Leave it to me to clean up your messes.”

“I offered to pay for a nurse—”

“Don’t come to your father’s funeral. Fine, Bill. Real mature. Nobody’s going to think you’re the bigger man for it. Go to hell.” She hung up on him.

He listened to the scattering dial tone for a while, feeling absolutely nothing. 

He lit and finished a cigarette. 

The team was still discussing poor Antoine Ellis when he returned to the boardroom. “Sorry about that.”

“Everything okay?” asked Wendy. 

“Yep,” he said. “Now, I was thinking about location. Was Antoine dumped near an elementary school?”

—

Bill couldn’t actually remember leaving work and driving home. He found himself sitting in the garage in his idling car, staring into space. Luckily he hadn’t closed the garage door.

Nancy, love her, noticed he was off as soon as he came in the house. “What’s wrong?” 

Bill stared at her.

Holden was playing with Brian on the living room couch. He looked up with naked curiosity.

Nancy glanced between Bill and Holden. She gestured for Bill to follow her to the bedroom.

“You didn’t even take off your jacket and shoes,” she said, once she had closed the bedroom door behind herself.

“Oh,” said Bill. He plopped down on the floor. Pulled at his shoes like a toddler.

Nancy knelt on the floor with him. Untied his shoes. Sniffed at him. “You’re not drunk,” she said. “What happened?” 

Bill watched her pull his shoes off for him. He wiggled his toes, stretched his legs. He finally remembered.

“Maggie called,” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Nancy.

“My dad died.” 

Nancy’s reaction seemed a little extreme to him. She looked taken aback. Straightened up, hand on her heart, eyes all big and soft, mouth open. “Oh, Bill,” she said. “Oh. Oh, Bill.” Notably, she did not say _I’m sorry._ She just said _Oh, Bill._

Bill nodded. “Funeral’s on Friday.”

“Oh, Bill,” Nancy repeated.

Bill shrugged. “I can’t go. So that’s that.”

Nancy sighed. “Come on. Get up off the floor.” She helped him up, and got him to sit on the bed. “You’re not thinking straight right now.” 

Bill shook his head. “She plans his funeral on a weekday? He’s not even dead 48 hours. What’s the hurry? He’s in a freezer. He’s not going anywhere.” 

Nancy patted his knee comfortingly.

“She doesn’t want me there,” he said. “Otherwise she would have given me some time.” 

“I know that’s… probably what it seems like,” Nancy started.

Bill cut her off with a huff. “Three years. She knew how to find me. And you sent everyone that letter about Brian, before we got him. I know you sent one to her, because I saw the envelope. She couldn’t have called at Christmas? Put Dad on the line? _Congratulations on your son_?”

“Honey, you didn’t call them at Christmas.”

“Sure,” Bill said. “And I wouldn’t put his funeral on a workday and then get mad at _her_ for not being able to come.”

“Is that what she did?”

“Oh, you know what she’s like.” Bill grit his teeth. He had that uncomfortable feeling in his brow, right between the eyes. He hated everything about this— how much he’d already bitched and complained, how every word brought him closer to opening a door he’d kept locked for so many years. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s have dinner.”

“Of course it matters,” said Nancy. “Bill, you sleepwalked in here, white as a ghost. I’m surprised you even drove home in one piece. You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” said Bill. “It just wasn’t news I was expecting to hear today.” 

Nancy pursed her lips. “I don’t want you to regret not going.” 

“Nance, I can’t,” said Bill. “I’ve got work.

“Ohio’s not far away.”

“It would still be a whole day, at least. I’ve missed too much work lately as it is, I can’t justify it.”

“You took a whole week off to take me to my dad’s funeral,” she said gently.

“That was different,” said Bill. “That was before the unit. That was before I had seven dead boys piling up on my doorstep. Nancy, they found another one yesterday. Right over in Dumfries.”

“Oh my god,” said Nancy, her face pained.

“He’s getting faster. He’s getting _closer_. I can’t have another dead boy on my hands.”

“They’re not on _your_ hands, Bill.”

Bill fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. His hands were shaking. _You stupid fucking pussy_, he thought to himself. _Man the fuck up._

“Honey…” Nancy sighed. “None of those boys are Owen.” 

Bill struggled with his lighter. It took four clicks to get going. “I don’t want to talk about Owen.”

“I know,” Nancy said wistfully. “You never do.” She forbade him from smoking in the bedroom years ago, but she said nothing about it now. She just went over to open a window. 

She paused by the bedroom door, head tilted. “Holden, stop eavesdropping,” she finally barked.

The sound of stumbling, then light footsteps retreating.

“Jesus,” Bill huffed. 

Nancy rubbed her eyes. “We shouldn’t have named our baby after him,” she said.

“What?” Bill went cold.

“No, no.” Nancy sat by him again. “Not like that.” 

During their first pregnancy, the one that lasted the longest, the only one that was ever really viable, they had a list of potential girls’ names about a mile long. But only one potential boy’s name.

“When I suggested Owen as a name to you, you were so happy,” said Nancy. “I’d never seen you smile like that. And then when he died…” It was a _he_, they knew, because that first pregnancy wasn’t a miscarriage. It was a stillbirth. Owen had almost made it. Nancy went into labour like everything was normal. He was a perfect little baby, ten fingers and ten toes. He was just dead.

Nancy swiped tears. “I know that I wasn’t there for you after that. I know I was a lot to take care of. For a long time. But I get scared now that you didn’t mourn for our Owen, and it got all tied up with how you felt about your Owen.”   
  
Bill put an arm around her, let her rest her head on his shoulder.

Back then, at the hospital, it was standard to whisk stillborn babies away, and not even let the mothers hold them. Bill insisted they let her see. He had already pissed off the hospital staff by lurking around the delivery room like no other father did, but like hell he was going to leave his wife alone when she was drugged to her gills.

He had an ally in an older nurse who was friends with Nancy, and sick of keeping stillbirth babies away from their parents. She let Nancy hold little Owen for a while, and cry over him. But Bill never got to hold him. He never even got to see his son.

He didn’t cry then, and he didn’t cry now. He didn’t feel anything.

“And that was tied up with your mom,” Nancy sniffled. “And now your father… Bill, you need to talk. I can’t be the only person in this family who ever talks.” 

Bill patted her back awkwardly. “I don’t have anything to say, Nance.” 

Nancy sighed against his shoulder.

“I…” Bill swallowed. “I really don’t want to go to this funeral.” 

“I know,” she said.

“It’s not going to be like your dad’s,” he said. “All your sisters and the husbands and your mom drinking and laughing.” He grit his teeth. “I don’t know if I could stop myself from spitting on his grave.” 

Nancy wrapped her arms around his waist. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.” 

He rested his cheek on her curly hair. She’d always had his back. She was the only person left living in the world who ever did.

—

Dinner was awkward. Nancy had made a very nice chicken dish with a fancy kind of mushroom sauce, and it was a dish Bill usually really liked. But today everything just tasted like old coffee grounds in his mouth, and his stomach rebelled against each bite.

The only thing he could really keep down was whiskey.

Holden kept giving him these forlorn little looks. He was telling them about a class project he was doing with Debbie. After Nancy would respond, Holden would look over at Bill expectantly, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement.

Finally: “How was your day, Bill?” Holden asked, very hesitantly.

Bill pushed food around on his plate.

“It’s just that…” Holden almost whispered. “Usually you have beer at dinner and today you’re drinking whiskey.”

“I think Bill’s a little tired today,” Nancy said, gently.

“Was it work?” Holden asked. “Was it another murder?”

“Holden,” Nancy warned.

“I didn’t see anything in the paper,” Holden went on.

“Holden,” Nancy said, firm. “I don’t like having that kind of talk at my table. Bill’s not in the mood. Leave him alone.”

A very long, tense pause. Brian swung his feet, tapped against the leg of his booster seat rhythmically. Bill was staring through his whiskey glass, but he imagined Holden had that dumbstruck, hurt look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Holden finally said.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” said Nancy. “Bill?”

Bill shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Nancy steered the conversation back to Holden’s schoolwork, and Bill suddenly wanted to be very far away from this table.

“Sorry, Nance,” he said, abandoning his fork, his food not even half-eaten. He stood up and pushed in his chair. “It’s really good, but my stomach’s been killing me lately. I think I’m getting a bug.”

She looked at him skeptically, sympathetically. “Okay,” she said. 

Holden stared up at him with big, stricken eyes. Bill avoided his gaze.

“I’m going to hit the hay,” said Bill. He turned without clearing his plate, without giving Nancy a kiss.

“Goodnight Bill,” Holden called after him, voice strained and anxious.

“Night,” said Bill. 

He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Pretended to be asleep when Nancy came in. On some level, deep down, he wondered what was wrong with him that he didn’t feel even a tiny bit sad.


	21. Spy Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill thinks he's cracked the case. Holden keeps on keepin' on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Holden be Holden-ing.

The unit was quiet on Wednesday. Everybody seemed to be occupied elsewhere. 

Bill sat in his dark, concrete-walled office, six feet underground, and dug into a huge pile of work. The Quarterbacks took up entirely too much space in his brain. He had cases to consult on, other profiles to put together, and a ton of court paperwork to get through. But no matter how much work he did, his brain kept wandering back to dead boys-- of one type or another. 

He didn’t speak to anybody, and he didn’t get much work done. 

He took a long lunch where he ate very little and smoked many cigarettes, staring out at the sunny blue sky. He was so, so tired. That numb feeling he’d had since hearing about his dad’s passing yesterday pressed down on him like a fire blanket. It smothered him. It put him out. 

(Bill had used a fire blanket in college once, when a housemate fell asleep while smoking on the couch. When they thought the fire was out, they removed the blanket. But it was too soon, and the couch re-ignited, worse than ever.)

Sometime in the late afternoon, he received a fax from Hilde Slováček.

`Special Agent Tench,`

`I am writing to inform you that I have been removed from the Samuel Raza case in Manassas. I won't waste your time by getting into the why of it, but it was not by my request. Officer Sylvester Key is still working the case, though as of now, no new detective has been assigned. I trust that you will be able to liaison with Key and hopefully support him in his solo endeavours, since he has very little support from his superiors. `

`I am still on the Antoine Ellis case in Dumfries. It is early days, but I will keep you posted on any new developments. It is clear to me now that Ellis and Raza are connected to each other and to your other cases. `

`Before I was taken off the Raza case, Key and I did more searching at the dump site. We went out at night with some sacks of potatoes and tried to recreate moving a body of Raza's approximate weight around the field. I had poor Sly dragging potatoes around all night. It was difficult not only because of the sheer labour, but because of the uneven terrain of the field. Additionally, there is very little lighting in the field, except near the one edge where the bus stops. Where the houses abut onto the field, there are no lamp posts. There are no walking trails through the field, let alone any lighting. `

`Our theory is that if the unsub dragged Raza from a vehicle by the side of the road-- whether by the bus stop or another location-- he would have been fully lit and far more visible. But it would have taken him easily half an hour, if not longer, to get the body to the exact spot it was dumped. `

`However, if he dragged the body in from the backyard of one of the houses, he would have been under complete cover of darkness, and it could have taken a matter of minutes. It's our opinion that Raza was most likely murdered in one of the homes facing onto the field and then dragged from the yard. `

`Key is going to try again to canvass the neighbourhood, but as you know, our initial questioning of the residents didn't turn up anything fruitful. That leaves the three vacant houses that were unoccupied at the time of the murder. Our potato sack experiment also identified those three houses as among the easiest to move a body from. My plan for the Ellis case, then, is to identify unoccupied houses. `

`Make of this what you will. I thought you might like to know what I'm thinking, as you were about the only person to ever show real interest. `

`Best,  
- Det Gunhilde Slováček`

Bill took the fax into the boardroom. He leaned against the table and stared up at dead boys on the corkboard. 

Wendy appeared in the doorway. "Bill, you look terrible." 

"Thanks.”

"I mean that in the kindest way possible." She tilted her head, frowning. "Did you sleep last night?"

"I got an hour or two." 

"Is everything okay?” 

"It's nothing," said Bill. "It's the case. It's in my head."

"It's okay to distance yourself a bit, if you have to," she said. "Professional detachment is perfectly healthy." 

Bill just kept looking at the pins on the map. "Where are Gregg and Jim?"

"An interview at Mecklenburg." Wendy looked at him skeptically. "We talked about this yesterday, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." 

Wendy came into the boardroom and stood next to him, half-leaning on the table, not quite close enough to touch, but very, very close. The silence smothered them both. 

"We have to stop this guy, Wen," Bill said, finally. He was, on some faraway level under the numbing cold, disgusted with how his voice sounded. 

"All we can do is provide insights," she replied. "If we don't catch him today, that's not a failure."

Bill gestured at the pins on the map. "He lives here. Near us. He could be one of us."

"They're _all_ one of us, Bill. They’re all human.” 

Bill snorted. 

"It's easier when they're out of state," Wendy admitted.

"Easier to detach," Bill muttered. "But this guy's close. And he's either getting lazy, or whatever's making him ramp it up is eating into his travel time."

"What's on your mind, Bill?"

A long, thin sigh escaped him. "Slováček-- the detective in Manassas-- she thinks he's using empty houses as his kill spots."

"Makes sense," said Wendy. "He's picking houses on the edge of fields. And elementary schools. I think you were saying that yesterday."

Bill gestured again at the pins on the board. "We can triangulate a rough area of residence. This buffer zone, here. He lives in the middle of this circle. There's more pins near the DC area because there’s more demand for--" He straightened up suddenly. "I know who it is." 

“Oh?” Wendy straightened up too. 

“We need to call all the precincts,” said Bill, his throat going dry, his brain waking from that sluggish stupor. “We need to find a way to bring him in. Where’s that business card?” He was searching his pants pockets before he realized he didn’t have his coat or jacket. 

He noticed his watch. It was coming up on 5:00 PM.   


“Oh, shit,” he said. “Shit, shit. Calvin!” 

“What’s going on?” asked Wendy. 

“I have to get home. I have to take Holden to therapy. Fuck. Calvin!”

He jogged out to the bullpen and almost ran smack into Calvin. He gestured for them both to follow. “Wendy, can you write a brief on our profile? We need to get it to all the local cops as soon as possible.”

“Uh, sure,” she said. “I already have a draft of what we’ve been working on--”

“Yeah, but you need to dumb it down,” said Bill, searching through his office for his things. “Make it so the average beat cop can understand it. Then-- Calvin, here.” Bill found the business card in his coat pocket. “Scott Morris. That’s our guy. That’s the fucking Quarterback Killer.” 

“All right!” Calvin copied down the business card into his own notepad. “But-- I mean, we’d have to find something to bring him in on.”

“I know. You and Melissa start finding out which houses he’s sold in the last few years, then I need someone to talk to Detective Slováček in Manassas-- uh, in Prince William County.” Bill tried to shrug his coat on, and got stuck. He flailed until Wendy helped him. “I think she’s based in Springfield, I’m not sure. She’s on the Ellis case in Dumfries, if all else fails. Talk to her and tell her about the Morris houses.” Calvin gave him back the business card, and he put it in his coat. 

“It’s already 5:00, Bill,” said Wendy. “I can dumb down our brief tonight, but is anyone going to be around to get it?”

“Just-- just do your best. Fax it out as soon as you can.” Bill checked his watch again and cursed. “Listen, when Gregg and Jim get back from the interview, can you let them know what’s going on? I’ll call as soon as I can. I want to talk to Jim. Tell him to stay, if he can swing it.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wendy said, frowning, obviously put out at being treated once again as Bill’s secretary. 

“Oh, and Calvin,” Bill turned in the middle of the doorway, and got clipped hard in the side. “Tell Slováček that white powder on Antoine Ellis’ knees is asbestos. I’d bet my life on it.”

\--  
Traffic was bad getting home, because _of course_ it was. It was almost quarter to 6:00 by the time he got there. If there were any more unintended delays, Holden would absolutely be late for his appointment, and Nancy would probably be snippy about it. 

Bill screeched into the driveway too fast, parking at a sharp angle. He ran up the steps to find Holden in front of the door, key still in the lock, looking surprised. 

“Bill,” he said. “I-- I thought you forgot. I was going to take the bus.” 

“What are you wearing?” asked Bill. 

Holden looked down at himself. “My-- it’s been getting too warm for my winter coat.” He wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, and Bill’s old letter jacket. 

Bill blinked, and realized just how much Holden had filled out in the last three months, and that he must’ve shot up at least half an inch. The jacket-- while still too big on him-- fit a lot better than last time.

If it wasn’t for Holden’s awkward posture-- standing stiff and straight, eyes big and nervous-- and for the glasses he’d taken to wearing while in the car, Bill would say he looked like an entirely different person. He’d even done something to make his hair stand up a little, tousled, instead of in his normal, neat side part. 

“You’ve never worn that before,” said Bill.

“I’ve worn it to school every day this week,” said Holden. “Do you… not want me to have it?” 

Bill found himself shaking his head. “No, no. I gave it to you. It’s yours.”

“I could wear my church jacket, but it’s getting kind of short in the arms.” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” said Bill. “It’s fine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans.” 

“Nancy got them for me. My slacks are getting a little short, too.” Holden looked confused, his brow furrowed. “Can we go?” 

“Yes, yeah,” said Bill. Something raw and spiky in his throat made him want to tell Holden to go back inside and change. _You’re being crazy_, he thought. _He knows better than to wander off with someone. And none of those boys wore glasses._ “I’m sorry I’m late. I got held up at work.”

“It’s okay.” Holden shrugged his knapsack on, tucked his thumbs under the straps, and followed Bill towards the car. “I figured you were busy. I can just take the bus, if you’re hungry or something.”

“You’re not going to get there on time,” said Bill. 

He proceeded to speed through traffic, honking aggressively at a few assholes. Holden braced himself with a hand on the dashboard. 

“Are you okay, Bill?” he asked, after another display of idiocy from some driver.

“I’m fine,” said Bill. He pulled into the diner a block down from the therapist’s office and parked the car. “I’m going to be in this diner. I need to make some phone calls. So you come over as soon as you’re done, okay?” 

“Yes, sir,” Holden said, brow furrowed quizzically. His furrow deepened when he realized Bill was walking with him to the crosswalk. “I thought you were going to the diner?” 

“Traffic’s bad today.” Bill couldn’t help glancing around paranoiacally, scanning every grown man he saw, and making sure they were staying well away from his fucking kid. “Just making sure you get there safe.”

Holden snuck unsure glances at him as they rode the elevator. It opened directly into the therapist’s reception area. “Okay Bill, I’ll see you later,” he said hurriedly, like he was embarrassed, as he ducked off down some hall and disappeared.

Bill sighed heavily. The receptionist shared a knowing smile with him, as if she could possibly understand the half of it.

At the diner, Bill got himself a big tuna melt, suddenly hungry for the first time in 24 hours, and strong black coffee. He called the office and connected with Jim.

“As soon as the profile is ready, everybody needs it,” he said. “Remind Wendy that we can narrow it to people living near Quantico. Nothing north of DC or south of Richmond.”

“Sure, Bill,” Jim said. Something about his calm demeanour always rubbed off on Bill, and lowered his heart rate. “So you think it’s Scott Morris, huh? The realtor?” 

“I know it is,” said Bill. “But I don’t think we have proof yet.”

“You’re really certain?” Jim wasn’t accusatory in his tone, just thorough.

“I have a hunch,” said Bill. “If that white powder on Antoine Ellis turns out to be asbestos, there’s going to be no doubt. I think the best bet is to bring him in and question him about the houses he’s been selling. Slováček says that Sammy Raza was most likely killed in one of the vacant houses and carried out the back yard. We’ve got to pull all the records and make sure he’s got one near each of the dump sites. I’m certain he does.”

“Well, we’re on it,” said Jim. “But it’s taking some doing, since it’s after business hours.”

“I know,” said Bill, stubbing out his cigarette. He sat facing the window, staring out at the therapist’s building, watching like a hawk.

“We’re not going to be able to get a lot of this information until the morning.” 

Bill sighed. 

“It’s okay, Bill,” Jim soothed. “He’s still going to be out there tomorrow.”

“That’s not good enough. He’s escalating.”

“But two in one week?” Jim sounded skeptical. “He needs time to plan, and rest.”

“What did Gregg say today was? In Holy Week?”

“Uh,” Jim huffed a quick breath. “Every day was something.” 

“Today was the day that Judas planned his betrayal,” Bill muttered.

Jim was quiet a while, probably frowning thoughtfully. “You really think that has any significance?”

“I _know_ this asshole’s Catholic,” said Bill. “And he’s got some fucking issues. I don’t want him out there one more night.” 

He stayed on the phone, swapping between Jim, Calvin, and Melissa, while he ate his terrible diner tuna melt and drank cup after cup of coffee. He kept a watchful eye on the building across the street, and checked his watch often. It came up on 7:00. It went past 7:00. It went to a solid ten minutes past 7:00.

“Fuck,” he said. “Jim, I have to go.” He hung up the phone without waiting for an answer, and left what he owed, plus a generous tip, on the counter.

He saw no glimpse of Holden or that red and black letter jacket on the street.

“Mr. Tench?” The receptionist sounded surprised when he came out of the elevator.

“Is Holden still here?” he demanded. 

“No, he-- he said he was going to meet you.”

Bill cursed under his breath. “When?”

She blinked. “His appointment was over at 7:00.”

Something gurgled under Bill’s heart, and he had to swallow back a burp. “Can I use your phone?” he asked. 

She probably assumed he was calling Nancy. He pulled the receiver as far as he could, and turned his back to the receptionist. “Hey, Calvin. Have you guys found any of Morris’ houses yet?”

“We have records for some in Maryland,” said Calvin. “The Bethesda city clerk happened to still be in the office.” 

“What about Fredericksburg? Or... anywhere in Spotsylvania or Stafford Counties?”

Calvin hesitated. “We’ll get Stafford County records first thing in the morning, when they’re open,” he said. “But I didn’t know you wanted us to look in Fredericksburg or Spotsylv—” 

“What about his company?” Bill interrupted.

“Scott Morris’ company?” Calvin sounded confused. “It was just an answering machine this time of night.” 

“We need a nationwide ARPANET,” Bill muttered.

“Well, Melissa and I--”

Bill hung up on Calvin, as a bespectacled, sweater-vest wearing man in his fifties came out from some office carrying a file. “Hey you! Dr. Jones, right?” 

Dr. Jones eyed him warily. “Um, do I know you?” 

“I’m Holden Ford’s foster dad.”

Dr. Jones beamed. “Oh, you’re Bill! Pleasure to meet--” 

“Did he leave your appointment early?” 

“No, he--”

“Did he say anything about going anywhere?” Bill felt a growing, dull pain in the side of his gut, and tried to ignore it. 

Dr. Jones frowned. “He didn’t mention anything. It was a completely normal session.”

“Shit,” Bill breathed. He jabbed the call button for the elevator. “Did he say anything about me?”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” said Dr. Jones. “But no, nothing out of the ordinary. And he’s never said anything to indicate to me that he might be at risk of running away.” 

“Great.” Bill jabbed at the call button again. The elevator was taking too fucking long. Every fucking thing was taking too fucking long.

“Is he okay?” Dr. Jones asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know,” Bill snarled, shoving open the stairwell door.

\--

_This little prick,_ Bill thought, as he drove past the third-closest liquor store to the house. He’d been inside all of them, asking if they’d seen a kid in a red and black letter jacket. Holden was forgettable, generally, but those weren’t school colours anywhere in Fredericksburg, so he hoped someone would have noticed. Nobody had.

He went back to James Monroe, and the library, just in case. It was past 8:00 now, and Nancy was definitely home. All she had wanted him to do was drive the stupid kid to his stupid therapy session. Was he supposed to show his face at the house, empty-handed, childless? 

_That little fucking prick,_ he thought again. _What the fuck does he think he’s trying to prove?_ Without knowing about any teenaged parties-- and with the conviction that Holden was unlikely to be invited to one, and anyway, on a Wednesday night??-- he couldn’t think of another way Scott Morris would pick up a kid tonight. Hitchhiking, like Tyler Banks? But that would be too risky for Holden, anybody could stop to pick him up, he wouldn’t have as much control over who he went with. What would he do if a perfectly nice, harmless stranger wanted to drive him to DC? 

_That unbelievable little jackass!_ For every scenario Bill ran to figure out where Holden might have gone, his anger grew and grew. That dull pain in his side throbbed, and sometimes moved around, creeping up towards his heart, his throat. He stuffed it down. Tried to smother it back into submission.

He drove around some new houses going up on the other side of the river, but he wasn’t even sure what he could be looking for. He didn’t see any flashy red cars sitting outside any of them. And what would he do if he did? Barge in without a warrant, with his sidearm drawn? At this stage-- sure, probably. If he really thought Holden was in there, he didn’t see what else he could do.

Most of the new houses weren’t even for sale yet. He saw Mrs. Turner’s company sign in front of a few, and another company’s, but none for Scott Morris. He was a small, one-man operation, after all.

As Bill sat at a red light, smoking a cigarette and trying not to pull out his hair, he remembered-- the _retrospective cinema_. Holden had gone on a date there with Debbie. There were only two cinemas in Fredericksburg, and only one would show the kind of filth Debbie was apparently introducing to Holden. 

He sped down to the little arthouse cinema on Spotsylvania Parkway, and sure enough-- across the street, a liquor store.

“Have you seen a teenaged kid around here?” Bill asked the disinterested, pierced-tattooed-long haired young clerks in the store. “So high, brown hair. He was wearing a red and black varsity jacket.” 

“I don’t know, man,” said one of them. “Lots of kids hang around outside.”

“They know better than to come in,” said the other one. “So we don’t really get a good look at them.”

Bill glowered at them so hard that they both took a step back.

“You need to pay better attention,” he spat.

“Okay, dude, chill,” one of them said as Bill stomped away. It took everything he had not to knock over an entire pyramid of rye bottles. 

\--

He drove around Spotsylvania aimlessly for another forty minutes after that, looking for the now-much-mythologized site of a future elementary school. The suburbs sprawled endlessly, spineless, speechless, monochrome. Newly paved roads curled like a labyrinth, a monster contained in the middle. Bill knew the monster was there, but Bill couldn’t find it. 

At last, defeated, with guts full of bad tuna melt, lungs full of nicotine, and a throbbing pain in his side, Bill went home to face his fate.

“Hey!” Nancy called when she heard the door opening. Brian must have already been in bed. It was long past 9:00 PM. She had some knitting with her, and Beacon Hill on the TV. “What took you guys so long? I made spaghetti.” 

Bill closed the door behind him, and stood there, alone.

Nancy looked up at him. “Where’s Holden?” 

Bill didn’t know how to answer.

Nancy put down her knitting. “Bill. Where’s Holden?” 

Bill shook his head. “He-- I was waiting for him across the street, and he never showed up.”

“What? What are you talking about?” 

“I took him to therapy. I walked him in there. He was supposed to come to the diner when he was done. I was _watching_ the building, I never saw him. He vanished.” 

Nancy, standing now, knitting abandoned on the armchair in a heap of sad yarn, shook her head, flustered. “He vanished? How?” 

“I talked to the therapist. They said he left after his appointment and everything was normal. He was going to meet me, he said. I’ve been driving all over. I checked all his usual places.” He shrugged.

Nancy stared at him. She mimicked his shrug, pinched her pretty face into something hateful. “How does an FBI agent lose a teenaged boy?” 

“I don’t know, Nance,” he said, truthfully. “I’m sorry. I... I guess he didn’t call here?”

“No!” Nancy started pacing, hands to her cheeks in anxiety. “Well, did you go to the police? Did you call them?”

“There’s nothing to call them about. He hasn’t been gone long enough,” said Bill. 

“That’s bullshit.”

“Nance, kids go out without telling their parents all the time. They come home late all the time. If I go to the police and say my teenaged foster kid didn’t come straight home after therapy, and it’s only been two hours, they’ll laugh me out of the place.”

Nancy glared like he’d just told her that all her favourite things were stupid. 

“I’m not saying it’s _right_. And anyways, there’s nowhere the police can look right now that I haven’t already looked.” Bill took a shaky breath. “I retraced his steps at the therapist’s, I went to the library, and back to the school. I drove around town just literally looking, like he was a lost dog.” 

“God, he doesn’t even _go_ anywhere,” she said. “Where would he have run off to?”

Bill, who had a simultaneously clear and hazy idea, bit his tongue. 

“What are we supposed to do?”

“What about his friend Debbie?” Bill offered. “Let’s call her.”

Nancy raced over to the phone mounted on the wall, where Debbie’s number was still scrawled on the message pad. She got through to Debbie, but the girl had no idea where Holden might be, and hadn’t seen him since school.

“Holden didn’t mention anything to her?” 

“That’s what she says.” Nancy frowned, looking skeptical. 

“You think she’d lie?” asked Bill.

Nancy shook her head, though her eyes still looked conflicted. “She called us when he hurt himself. I think she’d tell us if she had cause to worry.” 

“What about, um... that girl Tanya?” Bill guessed. “Do we have her number?” 

“No,” said Nancy, flipping through her little personal phone directory. “But I do know a few people with kids at James Monroe. They might have it. What’s Tanya’s last name?”

“I don’t know,” said Bill.

“Jesus,” she hissed. “We should have learned more about Holden.” 

She talked in the past tense. 

The pain in Bill’s side suddenly got sharp, like a knife in the gut. He let out a shaky, hissing sigh, low enough that Nancy didn’t hear. 

“What about Cheryl?” he said.

Nancy pursed her lips. She flipped another page. “Yeah, I’ll call her mom,” she grumbled.

Cheryl and her mother didn’t know where Holden was, and hadn’t heard anything.

While Nancy worked her way through all the other parents she knew at James Monroe, Bill went to the bathroom and regretted having so much black coffee after staying awake as long as he had. He passed some gas. It helped, for a moment, but then Bill clenched and gasped as the pain returned. It moved upwards, to his heart, and it throbbed until he felt like he was going to puke.

He put his head between his knees, and swallowed all that pain. After a long time, he was ready to go out and face Nancy again. 

He drank some water while she made her phone calls. Each one made her voice strain more. When she exhausted all her leads, she was almost crying, and she paced around in front of the dining table, hands to her face, making heartbreaking little noises.

“Oh, Bill,” she whimpered. “What are we going to do?”

“Just... just wait,” said Bill. “He’ll come home.”

Nancy shook her head, and shook her head, and shook her head. “Should we call Miss Wong? Should we tell her?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” said Bill. “He’s not missing. He’s just out being a stupid kid. He’ll come back.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “We’re not going to be insane parents about this.”

Nancy laughed a frantic little laugh, one that cut deep into Bill’s chest. _Insane parents_, he knew, looked different from the outside than the inside. 

He stood and gently put his arms around her, and breathed a sigh of relief when she let him hold her.

“What if they take Brian,” she sniffled. 

“That’s not going to happen. Brian’s ours.”

“What if Holden gets hurt,” Nancy’s voice broke. “And they say we aren’t fit to have kids.”

Bill chewed at his lip, and swallowed against the heartburn that flared up in his chest. “Kids run away from much worse foster homes than us, and those foster parents don’t seem to get any consequences.”

“Do you think he ran away?”

“No,” Bill said, with conviction. “I don’t think he ran away.” 

Nancy pulled away from him, wiped at her face. “You should have waited for him in the waiting room, Bill.”

“Yeah. I know.” Any other day he would have argued the point, but he knew that, this Wednesday in particular, he should have waited in the waiting room. He knew that the minute he saw Holden wearing his old letter jacket. He just didn’t want to believe it. 

Nancy fisted her hands in her hair. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said, voice tight, breath shallow. “You need to stay awake in case he calls.”

“I will,” Bill said. He stepped forward to give her a kiss, but she had already turned away.

So Bill waited. His stomach turned, and wouldn’t accept anything but water. He tried to watch a hockey game, but couldn’t focus. The seconds ticked on. He practiced what he’d say to the police, eventually.

Finally, around midnight, the phone rang. He snatched it up, so panicked he couldn’t even speak. 

“Bill?” Holden’s voice was very small.

Bill saw the deepest red he’d ever seen. “Where the fuck have you been?”


	22. Holden Ford, Fredericksburg, VA

Holden’s breath shook, like he was panting, or crying. “Can you come get me?”

“Where are you?!” Bill demanded.

Nancy rushed down the hall, pulling her bathrobe on. “Is that him?”

Bill wasn’t about to gesture at his wife to shut up, but he flapped a hand and scowled. “Holden!” he prodded.

“Um…” Holden’s small voice sounded distant. “I’m not sure. I’m at a gas station.”

“Is he okay?” Nancy tried to reach for the phone. Bill pulled away from her, putting up a conciliatory hand when she glared at him. 

“Are you okay?” Bill asked. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Holden. It was unclear which question he was answering. “Can you come get me?” 

“Is he still there, Holden?” Bill turned away from Nancy’s questioning face.

Holden’s breath caught. Bill could almost hear his frantic little heartbeat over the phone. “I don’t know. I think he was looking for me.” 

A drip of cold trickled down through Bill’s chest. “Where _are_ you?” 

“I don’t know!” Holden almost shouted.

“Ask the gas station clerk,” Bill ordered. 

“It’s closed,” Holden whined. “I’m in a phone booth. I thought there’d be people but—”

“Okay, is there an address posted inside the phone booth?”

“Um… I don’t— I don’t see one.” Holden breathed heavily into the phone. Wind whistled in the background. “I can look for a street sign—”

“_No,_” Bill snapped. “Stay in the phone booth. Close the door.” 

“Um… okay.” Some rustling, and the wind died down.

“The last you knew, were you in Spotsylvania?” Bill asked.

Holden sniffled. “Yes, sir.” 

“Okay, what kind of service station is it?”

“Um… Standard Oil.” 

“Is there an empty field across the street?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill tried not to sigh in relief too hard. He’d been there at that Standard Oil just a few hours ago. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“Thank you, Bill, thank you,” Holden breathed.

“Stay inside that phone booth. And turn your jacket inside out.”

“Um…” Holden hiccuped. “Okay. But you promise you’re coming, right?” He said the last part loud, like he wanted anybody nearby to hear it.

“Yes. I promise.” 

“Thank you, Bill,” Holden sniffled. “Because I—”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Click! Dial tone. Holden’s dime had run out.

“Fuck.” Bill slammed the receiver down.

“Where is he?” Nancy demanded. 

“A gas station in Spotsylvania.” Bill shrugged on his coat and hastily flattened the heels on his shoes. 

“What’s going on?” She looked at him skeptically. “Who was the other person he was talking about?” 

Bill avoided her gaze as he adjusted his shoes. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know,” he lied. It was hard to hear himself over the thumping of his own panicked, old heart. 

—

A closed Standard Oil service station on the very southern end of Spotsylvania was a cold and desolate place. 

Holden peeked out of a lonely phone booth as Bill raced in, tires screeching. 

Bill got out of the car, stomping towards him. 

Holden's eyes were bright, cheeks flushed, and he was trembling. He didn’t have his glasses on. He’d done as Bill said and turned his jacket inside out, so it looked like a plain black fleece. But his jeans were muddy and covered in twigs and grass, like he’d been crawling through the woods. There were scratches on his face.

“Bill,” he said breathlessly, sliding the door of the phone booth open.

Bill pushed him back into the booth, looking around the deserted gas station furtively. Made sure there was nobody around. No fucking kidnappers and murderers lurking in the shadows. “Did he come back?”

“No.” Holden stared up at Bill in awe.

Bill put his hands on Holden’s trembling shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Are you injured?” 

“I’m fine,” said Holden.

Bill cupped Holden’s face. It was hard to tell in the darkness. “You’re sure you’re fine?” 

“It’s just some scratches,” said Holden. “And I’m cold.”

Just as he was starting to calm down, Bill’s stomach flipped, and his head got hot. He took a step back. 

Holden wasn’t trembling. He was _shivering_. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed with adrenaline. This whole time, while Nancy was worried sick, Holden was _excited._

Holden grinned up at him. “I found him, Bill.” 

“What is wrong with you?” Bill asked quietly. 

Holden blinked. “I got him.” 

"Shut up," barked Bill. "Get in the car." 

"But Bill--!" 

Bill smashed his fist against the side of the phone booth. The glass splintered.

"Get. In the fucking. Car." 

Holden stared at him, smile and brightness gone. He hugged his knapsack to his chest hard. "Yes sir," he barely whispered, and scrambled into the car.

Bill put a coin in the slot and called Nancy. "I have him. He's fine."

"Thank God," she breathed. "You're bringing him home?"

Bill glowered at the car, where Holden sat with his shoulders all the way up, staring at him in trepidation. "I think I have to take him to the police station first."

"Why?" Nancy cried. "Oh my god, is he okay?"

"He was..." Bill sighed. "He was trying to get someone to buy him booze.”

“Good gravy!" At least Nancy sounded unimpressed now, rather than simply frantic. 

"What's worse, he found someone," said Bill. "So I'm gonna take him in to give a statement. It’ll teach him a lesson."

“I thought you said the police wouldn’t care.” It sounded like she was glaring. 

“They’ll care now because an actual crime was committed,” Bill tried not to snipe back at her.

There a pause. Bill imagined Nancy was gritting her teeth. “You're sure he's okay, though?"

"Yeah," lied Bill. "Don't wait up for us. Get some sleep."

He hung up so hard the hook almost broke off. 

Bill looked at Holden in the car. Then he looked away. He forced himself to take a long, deep breath. 

When he thought he was in control of himself, he got back in the car. 

Holden stared at him, sitting rigid and straight, breath shallow. He said nothing. 

After a long, long stretch of cold silence, Bill finally talked. "Are you sure you’re not hurt?"

Holden shook his head. "No. Just a few scratches."

"From him?" 

"No-- no, sir. From some trees. And I was cold. That's all. Um... Bill, I have to go to the bathroom."

"Did he touch you?"

"No," said Holden. "Not really."

"Not _really?_"

“N…no. Not really.” Holden fidgeted. "But I found him, Bill. I can show you the house. It's him!"

"What the fuck," Bill said slowly, "do you think you're talking about?"

Holden had that confused, blank look on his face. Like he couldn't fathom why Bill was so upset. "The Quarterback Killer," he said, weakly. "I caught him."

"What's his name, Holden?"

Holden blinked. "He-- he didn't tell me." 

"You..." Bill clenched his fists so tight he almost pierced his skin. “Jesus Christ, Holden. You are so fucking arrogant, you know that?"

Holden's eyes were huge and wet, his face pale and washed out in the half-dim gas station lighting. A wet trail fell down one cheek. "I just wanted to help, Bill," he said, very weakly. 

"I didn't need your help!" Bill shouted. "I already solved it!" 

Holden drew back, lowered his head. He said nothing. 

“What if he had killed you?" Bill snarled. "Did you think about that?"

Holden looked confused. "You would have caught him."

"_So fucking what?_" His head was so hot, it was like his brains were about to melt out of his ears. "You'd still be dead, you fucking idiot!" 

Holden sniffed, brow furrowed. “That doesn’t matter as much,” he barely whispered. 

"Are you--" Bill almost choked on his own bafflement and rage. "Fuck you, Holden." He got out of the car and slammed the door. 

He saw Holden watching him nervously as he paced around, muttering. Thankfully, nobody else seemed to be driving around this part of town. The streets were completely dead. 

A cardboard cutout of a race car driver, promoting some kind of gas formula, stood by the front doors of the gas station. Someone should have brought it inside before they closed up, and that someone was probably going to get into trouble, because before Bill knew what he was doing, he grabbed the cutout and tore its head off. He ripped the torso in half and stomped all over the remains. He punched the concrete wall of the gas station, almost smashing his fucking hand. 

He stormed back over to the driver's side of his car, and flung the door open. Leaned in to yell at Holden, who hugged himself tightly, eyes huge. 

"If you had been murdered," Bill shouted, "you don't think I would've been upset?"

"I--" 

"What about Nancy? You think it _wouldn't matter_ to her if you were stabbed to death by some fucking psychopath, and left to rot in a fucking field?"

Holden shook his head, cheeks wet. "I didn't--" 

"What about Brian? He fucking loves you, you little asshole."

"I didn't think--"

"No, you didn't think," Bill grumbled, getting back in the car, putting his seatbelt on. "You never think about anything but yourself."

Holden sniffled, the tears coming on stronger now. "I thought it wouldn't matter, because you would catch him, and he wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore, and you would be happy. And you could be a family with just Brian, like you wanted."

"First of all," Bill snarled, trying not to work up into the screaming, ripping, punching fit he'd just talked himself down from. "We wouldn't be _happy_ if you were dead, because we're not fucking sociopaths. And secondly, we wouldn't have Brian, you little prick!"

Holden wiped at his face, confused. "Wh--"

"One girl goes sleepwalking and your entire foster home gets shut down," Bill spat. "What would they do if a foster kid got murdered?" _Besides arrest the dad,_ he thought. 

"Brian's adopted--"

"I am an FBI agent. I am investigating a string of teen boy murders so high-profile the media gave it a name." Bill gripped the wheel hard, to keep his hands from doing anything else. "You think nobody would put that together? Holden, as soon as you didn't come back from therapy, I knew exactly what you were up to. I already suspected it when I saw you in that stupid jacket!”

Holden gulped for air, stunned. 

“You think nobody else would figure that out? You think everybody's that dumb? Because Holden fucken Ford is soooo much smarter than everyone else, isn’t he? So smart he doesn’t even need to do his fucking schoolwork.”

Holden’s jaw dropped. He looked utterly offended.

“And when they did figure it out, you think they'd let us keep Brian? They'd say we weren't fit parents. They'd investigate us." The adrenaline that had kept him anxiously going all evening was fading now, leaving him with nothing but cold fear in his belly. “Yeah, and maybe— maybe they wouldn’t do anything, but an investigation is bad enough. Especially when a kid like Brian is involved. Jesus, Holden. What were you thinking?"

Holden kept sniffling, hiding his face in the sleeves of his jacket. "I wanted to help," was all he managed to say, brokenly. 

Bill let him sob a little. After a few moments, when his brain was replacing adrenaline with whatever sad fucking bullshit chemical comes after, he sighed. Reached out and patted Holden on the shoulder. Holden flinched, and Bill withdrew his hand. 

"I'm sorry.”

"I know." 

"I didn't think he would actually kill me," sniffled Holden. “I thought I could get away. I just wanted to see him, and see where his next house was. I..." He hiccuped some more. "I can take you there. He gave me beer, but I didn't drink much of it. I put the rest in an old paint can. I think he drugged it. If we go there, we can get it." 

"Holden, I can't just go into his house. I don't have a warrant."

"Oh."

"Tell me what happened," Bill said, grudgingly, after a very long pause. "How did he find you?"

Holden wiped at his eyes. "After therapy, I took the bus to the retrospective cinema, because I knew there was a liquor store near there. And I knew they were building a new school in Spotsylvania, and I thought that was the closest liquor store."

"Okay," said Bill, brow furrowing. Holden had figured out the elementary school thing on his own?

"I just hung around in front of the liquor store. I put my glasses away. They’re in my bag. I waited until somebody was watching me. I didn't want to ask random people." Holden sighed shakily. "I waited until I saw an older guy with dark hair."

"An older guy?"

"Like... not someone's older brother, or someone in college," said Holden. "Someone old enough to be a dad." 

"Okay."

"That's what you had on your whiteboard," said Holden. "A dad, who had his own business. And a dead brother. All the boys had dark hair, so I thought his brother probably did, so he probably did, too…”

"Yeah, okay," sighed Bill, rubbing at his face. He knew he shouldn't have brought Holden to work. He fucking _knew_ it.

"I waited about an hour, but then I noticed him looking at me in the parking lot. He had a nice car, and I figured that would be a car other boys would get into. A red Firebird with a soft top."

"Did you get a licence plate number?" asked Bill. 

Holden looked caught out. "Oh. No, I didn't. I'm sorry. He had a truck, though. At the house, in the driveway. Maybe it's still there?"

Bill grit his teeth for a moment. "Okay, show me."

Holden directed him back to the main road. They drove around that field in a wide loop. The field was in a deep depression, and had several thickets of trees-- it was almost a ravine. 

"How did you get out of the house?"

"I hid behind some trees first, and he was looking for me in his car, so I went through the field. I hid in the field for a long time. I thought when I first saw the gas station that it must still be open, but by the time I got there, it was closed."

"Jesus," huffed Bill. 

"It's this cul-de-sac," Holden said. They went up a quiet cul-de-sac lined with empty houses, no cars parked in front. 

"Nobody lives here," muttered Bill. "None of these houses have been sold yet. Holden, he could've done anything to you."

Holden didn't respond. He had his face against his window. "That's the house," he said, excitedly, pointing at the crest of the cul-de-sac. "He moved his truck, though. He must've put it in the garage.” 

"Great," said Bill. He idled in front of the darkened house, scribbled the address in his notepad quickly. "What did he do?"

"Well, nothing," said Holden. "He said he'd give me some beer and marijuana if I spent some time with him. And I pretended to be groggy from the beer, because he must’ve drugged it. Then when he went to the basement, I ran away." 

Bill grit his teeth as he pulled them back out to the main road. It was lined with more houses that weren't even finished, exposed plastic vapor sheets flapping in the wind. 

Holden kept sneaking him glances as they drove. He didn't ask where they were going, or insist that he was just trying to help. He sniffled sometimes, wiped at his face. 

Bill, for his part, just simmered. 

He parked them in the lot of a little strip mall across the street from the Fredericksburg police station. The corner store was still open, and the light and presence of at least one other person put Bill at ease a little bit. 

"How did you figure it out?" he finally asked. 

"I thought, for a while now, he must have access to a house near one of these open fields. When I read about that boy in Manassas, that's what I thought. And I thought he must be meeting them at liquor stores, or... or places like that. At least most of them?"

"That's it?" Bill sneered. 

Holden's shoulders bunched up. "When I saw your board at work, and I saw how many more boys there were... I thought you were right that he had his own business. That's all I really knew. I just thought, there's so many boys. And you were getting so upset about it..."

"Jesus," Bill muttered. 

"And then yesterday, you were sad--"

"I was not--" Bill bit off his words so hard he almost bit through his own damn lip. "I wasn't _sad_ last night. And that has nothing to do with this. And it's none of your business."

“You said you couldn't have any more dead boys on your hands," Holden said. 

Bill sputtered. "So you put yourself on that list of dead boys? That’s a much better way for me to crack this case. Thanks!” 

Holden hung his head. 

"I didn't need your help. I know the name of the guy who took you, I know about his stupid red car.”

"I said I was sorry," Holden sulked. "Let's just go home and you can..." his voice dropped into such a quiet mumble that Bill couldn't hear him say _send me back._

"We can't just go home," said Bill. "He knows you got away. He's going to try to do some damage control. We need to report this before he gets ahead of it." He rubbed his face, and hoped there was a detective on duty that he knew. _I can't believe I'm going to fucking say this._ "Holden... I need you to lie to the police."

Holden gawked at him. "Lie?"

"Just... just a half-lie. You can't say anything about doing this on purpose, okay?"

"But--"

"Holden," Bill said firmly. "Remember what I said about Brian? If they think you put yourself in danger _on purpose_ because of me, they might try to take Brian away. I can't..." He shook his head. "I can't take that risk. It would kill Nancy."

Holden was stricken. "I wasn't thinking of Nancy. I'm sorry."

"So you're just going to tell them that you were looking for someone to buy you liquor, like a normal kid. Okay?”

"Do we really have to tell them anything?”

"Yes," said Bill. "Holden, I need a legitimate reason to ask anybody to bring this guy in for questioning. I can't do it on a whim and not tell anyone why. The profile only gets us halfway there.” 

Holden looked absolutely miserable. 

"I know I’m asking a lot,” said Bill. "But you should've thought of the police before you pulled this stupid stunt.”

Holden hung his head. 

"You're going to tell them the rest just as it happened. You’re going to tell Nancy the same thing. You're just going to leave out that it was on purpose, okay? So what are you going to say?”

Holden sniffled. "That I wanted someone to buy me liquor. And I went with him. And I got scared and ran away, and called you."

"Good boy," said Bill, patting Holden’s shoulder. In the darkness, he didn't see the way Holden's cheeks went pink. 

\--

Holden finally got to use the bathroom, and splashed some water on his face. Bill helped him turn his jacket back to normal, avoiding touching the leather sleeves directly. He put a comforting hand on the back of Holden’s neck, and led him to a waiting area. 

"You don't say a _word_ to anybody without me there," he ordered. Holden nodded, sniffling, wiping at his eyes.

Bill went to talk to the desk sergeant. Luckily for Bill, Detective Art Spencer was just off a case, and on night shifts all this week. Their civilian secretary brought Holden a cup of mediocre hot cocoa while they waited for Art to appear.

Holden’s knee jiggled nervously.

“It’ll be fine,” Bill said, quietly. “Just say what we talked about.”

Holden nodded, shoulders slumped. 

“Special Agent Tench,” Detective Spencer greeted them with a smile. “What brings you here this time of night?”

“Hey, Art.” Bill got up and shook his hand. “My kid was trying to get someone to buy him booze. And some fucking weirdo took him to an unfinished house and kept him there.”

“What the hell? What is wrong with people?” 

Bill just shook his head.

Art got Bill to sign some forms, and took them to the soft interview room. Holden looked around cautiously, like he was logging every feature of the room— soft couches, throw pillows, coffee tables. 

Bill got him settled on the couch, and sat down on an armchair, so Art and Holden could look directly at each other. 

“I didn’t know you had a kid,” said Art. 

Bill’s throat went dry. “We’re fostering him.”

"So he's like, your nephew or something?"

"No," said Bill. "We're not related. My wife and I are just looking after him for the time being." 

Holden fidgeted, and lowered his head. 

"Ah, okay," said Art. He put his tape recorder on the coffee table and started the interview. “So Holden, somebody tried to give you alcohol?"

Holden nodded, staring down at his lap. 

"You have to tell him more than that, Holden," said Bill. 

Holden sighed. “May I have a glass of water?"

"Sure," said Art. He fetched a pitcher of water from the corner of the room.

Holden looked over at Bill, who looked back at him. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, Holden was trying to tell him. 

Art poured them each a glass of water. 

“Thank you,” said Holden, annoyingly polite as ever. 

“No problem, Holden. Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re here to say?”

Holden took a long drink from his glass, and stared down at the coffee table. 

Finally, he started talking. “I have therapy on Wednesdays,” he said. “And today I wanted to get drunk afterward. Because I was sad.” 

Bill shifted uncomfortably, frowning. He wondered if that was part of the lie, to cover his motivation. Or if it was part of the truth. 

“So I went to go see if anyone would buy me some liquor.”

“Where was this?” asked Art. “The liquor store up in Eagle Village?”

Holden shook his head. “I didn’t want Bill to catch me. I went to the one by the cinema near Spotsylvania Parkway.” 

“Ah, okay,” said Art. 

“I was kind of afraid to ask anyone, though,” Holden mumbled. “But then this guy came up to me. And he asked me if I wanted any alcohol, and I said yes. And he said he could give me some beer and some, um… some grass… but I had to go with him to his house.”

“Okay,” said Art. “Did he tell you his name?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He had dark hair, green eyes, and he was clean shaved,” said Holden. “Normal looking.”

“How old was he, do you think?

"Um... your age?" guessed Holden. "Like, old, but not old like Bill."

Bill scowled, but Art chuckled. “Was he tall? Skinny, fat?”

"No, he was in good shape. Taller than me, but not super tall. I guess average height. He had nice arm--" he swallowed his words suddenly. "He was in good shape." 

“Did he have any scars? Tattoos?”

“Not that I saw.” 

“What was he wearing?”

“He was wearing blue jeans, a green polo shirt, a black jacket, and steel-toed boots,” Holden said, very matter-of-factly. 

“How do you know they were steel-toed?”

Holden shrugged. “They looked like them. And his footsteps were really loud in the house.” 

“Okay. What about his car?” asked Art. “Do you know what kind of car it was?”

“He had a red Firebird with a vinyl top,” said Holden. “I don’t know what year.” 

“Did you see the license plate number?”

“No, sir.” Holden hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Art said affably, though Bill was about ready to knock someone’s teeth out. He needed a fucking cigarette. “So this guy just comes up to you and asks if you want some alcohol?”

“He… he walked up to me and he said ‘are you waiting for someone to buy you booze?’ And he smiled, like he was joking. But then I said yes, and he said he would give me some if I went with him. He said he had grass, too.” 

“He didn’t ask if you were going to a party or anything?”

“No, sir. He just said to go with him.” 

“Okay. What happened then?”

Holden shifted and was quiet for a little bit. “I got in his car.” 

“Was there anything interesting about the inside of the car?”

Holden frowned. “Not really.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“He just drove me to his house. We talked a little bit.”

“Do you know where the house is?” asked Art.

“He showed me after,” said Bill. “I have the address.” He wrote it out neatly on a fresh page from his notepad, and gave it to Art. 

Art looked at the address for a long time. “What did you talk about? Did he ask for your name?”

Holden’s shoulders went up shyly. “Yeah, he asked my name. I only told him my first name. And he asked about my jacket, because he didn’t recognize the colours.” 

"What did you say?"

Holden hesitated, eyes darting slightly. He hung his head, turning away from Bill a little bit. "I told him my dad gave it to me. He said he thought it looked old. He said he could tell it wasn’t mine because he didn’t think, um… he said I was too young to have earned four chevrons. But he didn’t say it in a mean way. It was like he was teasing. He was really nice, mostly. He smiled a lot.”

“What happened when you got to his house?”

Holden shrugged. “We just went inside. Nobody else was there. It was all empty. He said he had just finished building it.”

Bill leaned forward, trying not to react too much, while Art wrote notes in his notepad. 

“He was finishing the walls,” said Holden. “Some of them weren’t painted yet. So there were some tarps around, and some old paint cans. There wasn’t any carpet on the floor yet. And he had an old couch there. For taking breaks, he said.” Holden lowered his head now, and went quiet. 

“Okay,” said Art, after a long moment. “I can tell this is hard for you, Holden. You’re doing a really good job. Can you tell me what he did next?”

Holden snuck a glance at Bill, who tried to look like a caring, concerned dad, and not like he was burning up with white hot lividity. 

"He-- he said he would give me a six pack and some joints, but I had to stay and have a beer with him first. We sat on the couch and he gave me a beer.”

“Was it a can or a bottle?” asked Art. 

“A bottle,” said Holden. 

“Did you open it yourself or did he open it for you?”

Holden hesitated. “He opened it for me.”

“Did you see him do that?” Art looked concerned. “Did he open it front of you?”

Holden shook his head. “He had them in a cooler. He had his back turned. And it was open when he gave it to me.”

“Okay,” said Art. “What happened next?” 

“He gave it to me and I took a sip. But I was starting to get nervous. I didn’t really want it anymore.” 

"Why were you nervous?" asked Art. 

Holden blinked. "I just... it started to feel weird. I’ve never had beer before and I didn’t like the way it tasted. It started to feel like I had made a mistake going with them. But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where I was. I didn't want to piss him off, but I didn't want to drink the beer, either. So I just sipped at it. He was talking a lot about his family, and about how much he missed being a teenager. He kept telling me these were the best years of my life, and I should appreciate them more.”

"Okay," said Art, his tone conveying how weird he felt that was. 

"And then he--" Holden broke off. 

"What did he do, Holden?" 

Holden didn't answer. 

Bill cleared his throat. "It's okay," he said. "You can tell him." He thought he knew the whole story, so he was getting concerned now that this asshole had done something _really_ weird. His stomach went tight, and he clenched his fists. 

Holden took a shaky breath. "He just-- he asked me to hold him." 

Art looked nonplussed. "He wanted _you_ to hold _him_."

"Yeah," said Holden. "He laid down on the couch, and he kind of laid in my lap, and he wanted me to hold him." 

"What did you do?"

Holden shrugged. "I did it. I was feeling kind of sleepy, and I just wanted him to let me go, so... I did it. It..." He hung his head. His voice got very small. “It felt kind of nice. To cuddle with someone." 

Bill had never frowned so much in his life. 

"Did he say anything during this time?" asked Art. 

Holden shook his head. "No, we were both quiet. He didn't even look me in the face. He sort of had his face in my chest. He was kind of… petting me.” 

"How long did this go on for?"

"About... twenty minutes? I thought he had fallen asleep. Then I wasn't feeling so scared anymore. Just... kind of annoyed." 

"Annoyed?" Art looked surprised. 

Holden sighed. "I wanted to go home. I don't understand what he wanted. But then after a while he got up and he said thanks. And he said he had to get the six pack and the grass from the basement. Because the kitchen was all ripped up, there was no fridge there, I guess he had a fridge in the basement? He told me to wait for him, and he’d be right back.” 

There was a long pause. Art gave Holden a sympathetic look, and waited for him to continue. 

Holden took a shaky breath. "I just... I got kind of nervous again. So I got my bag and I tiptoed over to the door, and I looked down the stairs. And I saw more tarps down there, and a... a big pile of rope. And I thought I saw a chain hanging from the ceiling. And I just... I got really scared. So I ran away."

"Ran away?" Art prodded. "What exactly did you do?"

"I, um..." Holden swallowed. "I went out the front door and I-- I ran down the cul-de-sac. I thought about knocking on a neighbour's door but none of the houses-- it didn't look like anybody was home? And then I heard him calling for me, so I just-- I wasn't really thinking. I just ran into this one yard and hid behind some trees. I heard him get in his car.”

Art nodded, waiting for Holden to continue. 

Holden looked over at Bill.

"It's okay," Bill said gently, leaning forward a little. 

Holden nodded. "I was-- that's when I realized how dumb I had been. I was really scared." He was looking pale now, and his breath was shaky and shallow. Bill thought he was only _now_ realizing how dumb he had been, and it was really sinking in. 

"It's okay, Holden," said Art. "You're doing great. What did he do then?"

Holden took another shaky breath. "He was driving around, really slow. I thought he was looking for me. So I just... made myself as small as I could. I was kind of hiding under the tree. He went around the corner, and I thought, if I try to run down the sidewalk he could find me and catch up with me. So I ran the other way. Into the field. And it was, um... in the dark, it was a lot bumpier than I thought. And there were more trees. So I fell a lot, and I ended up just crawling. That's how I got so scratched up." He gestured at his face. 

"Where did you run to?"

"I saw a gas station on the other side of the field. It had more lights on than any of the houses. But then I was hiding in the field for a long time. Anytime I thought I saw a car driving on the edge, I got down on the ground. So when I got to the gas station, it was closed.” Holden looked down at his hands in his lap. He swallowed hard. "I don't know, I don't remember exactly. I just finally got to the gas station, and tried to go in, but it was closed. But there was a pay phone, so I called Bill. And— and that’s it.”

Art let him stay quiet for a while. “Okay, Holden. Thank you for sharing that.”

Holden sniffled, and nodded. 

Art asked a few follow-up questions to double-check what Holden said, mostly about the house and the guy’s appearance. And then, a question that made Bill’s stomach flip. 

"What were you scared of, Holden? What did you think he was going to do?"

Holden stiffened, eyes darting to Bill, and back down to the table. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I just got scared. Everything about it seemed weird. And then he was looking for me. Why would he look for me? Why would he care?"

"Maybe he wanted to make sure you were okay," Art offered. 

Bill had to clench his teeth to stop from groaning out _come on._ He tried not to glare at Art. This wasn't his interview, and he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize its usefulness-- if there was any.

Holden bit his lip. "I was just... scared. I don't know. It didn't seem right." 

"Okay," said Art. "Thanks, Holden. You did the right thing." 

"Are we... is it over?" Holden asked, sounding confused. 

"Yep. I'm just gonna get you and Bill to sign off on some things."

After they signed more forms, and left the soft room, Holden asked if he could use the bathroom again. He’d drank about four glasses of water during the interview. 

"Let me hold your knapsack and jacket," said Bill. He took Holden's jacket by the inside loop, resting it over his fist, so he wasn't touching the outside. When Holden was in the bathroom, Bill looked over at Art. "You want to bag his jacket for evidence?"

Art furrowed his brow. "I don't think that's necessary."

"You can get prints off leather," said Bill. “That weirdo was touching him."

"Yeah, but..." Art sighed. "Agent Tench, I'm not entirely sure what crime has been committed here.”

Bill levelled him one of his worst looks. "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

Art cowed back a little, at least, from Bill's glare. "The guy didn't abduct Holden. He didn't hold him against his will. We have no idea what his intentions were. The only thing he actually did was give him some beer, and..."

"Art," Bill barked. "He's the fucking Quarterback Killer." 

Art didn't answer right away. "Okay," he said. "What?"

Bill angrily searched his pockets, trying not to drop Holden's jacket or knapsack. He found the Scott’s business card and gave it to Art. "It's him. This is our guy. He fits our profile."

Art gawked down at the card. "How do you know he's the guy who took Holden?" 

“Did you get a profile from my team today? They were supposed to fax one over.”

“Yeah, I, uh… I think we did. We were going to brief about it in the morning.”

Bill bit back an angry grunt. “The profile may as well be Scott Morris’s biography. And all the dump sites have been in fields near one of his houses, which at the time of the murders, were unsold." That last point wasn’t 100% verified yet, but he was pretty convinced it would turn out to be true.

Art shook his head. "Agent Tench, it's not that I'm questioning your work on this... it's just... how do you know the person who Holden went with is the guy who owns the house?" He showed Bill the card. "He doesn't have his face on his card. I don't know what this Scott Morris looks like." 

“I gave you his address,” Bill snarled. “The ownership won’t be hard to verify, will it?”

"Well, no," Art admitted. 

"Then get on it," said Bill. "And take the jacket for fingerprints."

"Bill, I understand he's your foster… son? But we can't arrest people because you think he _might_ have wanted to hurt your kid." 

"It's not about that," Bill said, half-heartedly. "This guy is a serial killer. We just need a reason to bring him in." 

"All right," said Art. "So I'll bring him for the fact that this weird… crime, maybe… was reported on his property. Okay? And I'll find out more then."

Bill grit his teeth, though deep down, he knew that was the best he could've hoped for. "And take the jacket."

"Fine." Art gestured for a uniformed officer to bag the jacket. "But you know lifting prints off coarse leather is pretty hard."

"I know," Bill muttered. There hadn't been any prints found on the other boy’s clothes, anyway. Scott may have touched Holden a little, but from Holden’s story, he wasn’t exactly grasping him by the arms. Not _yet_, anyway. 

And Art was right. Proving that Scott Morris brought Holden home and gave him beer did not prove that Scott Morris killed other kids. 

Art scribbled some more in his notebook. "We'll bring him in as soon as we can, Bill. I promise." He gave Bill an unconvincing smile. Bill scowled back. 

Holden came out of the bathroom, hesitantly pushing the door open. "They didn't believe me?" he asked nervously. 

"No," snarled Bill. He shoved Holden's knapsack back into his arms. "They fucking didn’t.”

\-- 

It was almost three in the morning when they were finally on the way home. Bill gave Holden his own coat, and the kid looked about ten years old, wrapped up in it like a blanket in the passenger seat, sniffling. 

Bill didn't turn on the radio, and he didn't light a cigarette. He just fumed and seethed and drove, and his heart beat faster and faster. 

_This fucking kid!_ Livid thoughts rattled around in his brain. His knuckles hurt from punching that concrete wall, and his skin was all torn up. _Thinks he knows everything. Thinks he can just fucking use himself like bait!_ And _who the hell does Art Spencer think he is, doubting my profile,_ and _if that goddamn realtor gets away because of this, I’ll—_

"I'm really sorry," Holden said weakly. 

"Holden, you need to shut the fuck up if you don't want me to drive us into a ditch."

Holden shut up. 

Bill mentally went through every terrible scenario that could have played out that evening, starting with Holden lying eviscerated in some barren ravine, and ending with Bill ripping Scott Morris’ spine out through his own mouth. 

Soon enough, they were in the house's driveway. Bill felt like a tarmac road on a hot summer day, anger radiating off him in visible waves.

Holden stared at him with naked fear. 

Bill yanked the key out of the ignition. 

Holden scrambled to get out of the car, clutching his knapsack close. He followed Bill up the stairs to the house like a panicky little mouse. 

Nancy had left a lamp on for them. Bill threw his keys at the wall and didn't check to see if they made it onto the key hook. He flopped onto the couch and stared into space. 

He heard Holden lock the door. Heard Holden carefully put away his coat and shoes. Saw Holden creep into his line of vision, wringing his hands, shoulders up. 

"I really am sorry, Bill," Holden said again. 

Bill didn't answer. He could barely hear. He was barely even a person right now. 

"Did I fuck things up really bad?" Holden asked, his voice quiet and breaking. 

"I don't know," said Bill. 

Holden got down on the ground for some reason. He looked up at Bill imploringly. "I didn't mean to fuck things up," he choked out. "Please don't send me away. I'll make it better."

"Go to bed, Holden," Bill muttered. 

Holden crawled forward. "I'll make it better." Shaking hands reached out towards Bill's thighs. 

Everything came sharply into focus. Bill snapped back to reality. "What the fuck?"

But Holden already had his hands in Bill's crotch, scrabbling at Bill's fly. 

"Stop it!" Bill shoved Holden away. Holden hit the floor hard. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

Bill looked up like a deer in the headlights. Nancy stood in the doorway, in her dressing gown, her face distorted in shock and disgust. 

Holden gasped loudly. 

"I didn't touch him," said Bill. 

"What the fuck, Bill?" said Nancy.

"_He_ touched _me_," Bill's heart beat fast again, for a different reason, and his vision wobbled a bit. 

Holden heaved huge, painful gasps, trying to crawl away from Bill. 

"Oh, Holden, Holden," Nancy soothed, getting down next to him. "Bill, get my first aid kit." 

Bill had retreated off the couch towards the kitchen by now. "Nancy, he's been fucking around all night, and now he's having one of his stupid tantrums." 

"It's not a tantrum, Bill! Jesus! Get my first aid kit!"

Bill ran to the master bathroom. 

When he got back, Holden was clutching his chest, his face red, gasping like a fish on land. Or a rabbit in a trap. Or a kid in a trench in Korea, who just realized, in a very physical way, that he was never going home. 

Bill had seen all three of those things, and he finally believed that it wasn’t a tantrum. "What's going on?" he asked as he gently set Nancy's kit down.

She tore the kit open. "It's a panic attack, Bill," she spat, like he was the stupidest man on earth. "Get him a glass of water." 

Bill got the water. He knelt next to Nancy again. She had Holden sitting halfway up against the wall, and a bottle of pills out of her kit. She tried to get a pill into Holden's mouth. 

"Here you go, sweetheart," she said. "Can you swallow that?" 

Bill picked up the bottle. Five mg of diazepam, prescribed to NANCY TENCH. _Well,_ he thought. _Shit._

"Good boy, Holden," said Nancy, as Holden audibly crunched the pill between his teeth. 

"Should he be taking the whole thing?" asked Bill. 

"Probably not," Nancy muttered. 

"Should he be chewing it?"

“It’s not ideal,” she grit out. “But you try getting it in him in this state." 

Holden finally swallowed, but was still gasping too hard to do much of anything else. 

Nancy picked up the glass of water. "Back off Bill, would you?" 

Bill shifted back a few feet, dragging the first aid kit with him. He surreptitiously looked through it. The diazepam wasn't the only pill bottle hiding in there. Behind all the band-aids and gauze and rubbing alcohol was something else prescribed to Nancy. 

"Nancy, what's imi… imipramine?”

"Not right now, Bill," she said. 

Holden sipped a little at the water Nancy held up for him. 

"There you go," she soothed. "Good boy. Bill, get me a blanket and pillow."

Bill got a blanket and pillow of the couch. Nancy draped the blanket over Holden, and let him settle down onto the floor. 

Then she moved to tidy up the first aid kit. "Give him some space, Bill."

Bill didn't have to be told twice. He went to the master bathroom to use the can. He washed his face, and stared at himself in the mirror for a long, long time. 

When he got out of the bathroom, the bedroom was empty. He went to the living room and Holden was bundled up on the couch, sniffling and crying softly to himself. 

Bill lit a cigarette, and just stood there for a moment. 

Nancy was in the kitchen, sipping some kind of herbal tea. 

Bill came to stand near her. 

"You gave Holden a pill before," he said. "When he had his stitches."

Nancy sighed. "Yes."

"Is that... is it safe? An adult dose?"

Nancy shook her head. "I won't make a habit of it."

"Nance," said Bill. 

"He won't talk to me about what he needs," she said. "And I don't think he tells his therapist the whole story.”

"You can't just give kids pills that aren't meant for them.”

"I know that!" She glared at him. “Do you think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know the dangers better than you do? But _you_ don't know a panic attack feels like, Bill. It feels like you're dying." 

Bill fell silent. As usual, he didn't know what to say. 

"And what the hell was that, anyway?" sneered Nancy. "What were you doing to him?"

"I didn't do anything," Bill said, hackles raising. "He freaked out, and he tried to— I think the other foster families did something weird to him."

"Well _obviously_," hissed Nancy. "Thank god his new foster father is Sherlock Holmes! Has he done that to you before?" 

Bill looked away. 

"Oh, Jesus," said Nancy. "And I'm the monster for giving him Valium? You _knew_ he was acting out like that, and you never told me?"

"It was only once," said Bill. "I didn't want to upset you." 

"Well, thanks, Bill. Finding out like this is so much better." 

That cold drip trickled down through Bill’s heart again. He’d said something similar to Holden hours earlier. 

Nancy fisted at her hair. "We need to talk. I mean it. Tomorrow. Once he's slept off his Valium hangover. You're staying home from work, and we're all having an honest, family discussion, for once in our goddamn lives." 

"Nancy, I have--"

"I don't _care_, Bill," she said. "You're not married to your fucking job, you're married to _me._” She dumped out the rest of her tea, which she had barely drank, and washed her cup. 

“What’s imiprin… the other one you had in there?” Bill asked, as quietly as he could. 

Nancy sighed heavily. 

Bill edged closer, frowning, hollow, useless. “I thought you sorted all that out with Dr. Bonner.”

"I did," said Nancy. "It's sorted." 

"Well... I mean I..."

"Bill," she cut him off. “_You’re_ the one who never wanted to talk about Owen. If you did, you would have talked to me years ago, when I asked."

Bill shook his head. "Come on, Nance. You didn't-- you didn't _ask_."

"I guess not," she said. "I just cried all the time and never got out of bed. I was only so miserable I _couldn't_ ask. So I guess sending me to a therapist _by myself_ was the only option you had.”

Bill grit his teeth. He could feel something behind his eyes, but he didn't know what it was, and he was afraid that if he let it out, whatever it was would not stop. "I thought... I thought if you wanted to talk to me, you would. Then I got you that doctor. And you said everything was fine--"

"It _is_ fine, Bill," she said. “This isn’t about me.” She dried her hands, and walked briskly back out to the living room.

Bill leaned on the kitchen counter, and finished his cigarette. He didn't know what else to do. 

He heard her talking softly to Holden. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you to bed. I’ll clean up your cuts and you can have a nice, long sleep.” He heard Holden mumble and whine in response. 

Nancy helped Holden shuffle past the kitchen doorway. 

“Night Billll,” Holden slurred, head hung low. “M’sorry…” 

“I know, kid,” said Bill. “Sleep tight.”


	23. Finally, a Family Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussions of miscarriage, stillbirth, anxiety, depression, and child abuse/sexual abuse. Also murder, but I can’t imagine that’s a problem for anyone here!

Bill really needed to sleep in— and Nancy, knowing he hadn't slept well after hearing about his dad's death, told him as much. But he still woke up at eight in a panic, feeling like he was going to be late.

"Go back to sleep!" Nancy insisted, exasperated. 

"There's no use," he grumbled.

"You are going to hurt yourself if you don't get more sleep," she said. "Just try. I'll call the office for you."

He woke again around ten, and gave up. Holden's door was closed, and there wasn't any sign of Nancy or Brian.

He wandered around and made himself coffee. Saw Nancy and Brian playing in the backyard. He poked his head out the door and said good morning. Nancy waved at him, but Brian didn't. 

It was a little cold to be outside, Bill thought. He watched them through the window for a while. Nancy seemed to be showing Brian different bugs, and Brian actually seemed interested in them. Maybe she had picked up some good tips in that playgroup, after all.

He called the office, and breathed a sigh of relief when he connected with Melissa.

"Good morning, Special Agent Tench," she said. "Do you want to talk to Wendy, or Jim?"

"No," he said firmly. "I wanted to know if Detective Art Spencer has called in about anything?"

"Not that I'm aware of," said Melissa. She muffled the phone to check around. "No, he hasn't called. There aren't any messages for you.”

“Okay,” said Bill. “I’ll try to be in this afternoon." 

"Your wife said you were taking a personal day," said Melissa.

Bill sighed. "I'm gonna try-- I just have to deal with a family issue. But I'll try to drop by. Has there been any movement on Scott Morris? Has anybody been able to bring him in?" 

"We got the addresses of all his houses," said Melissa. "And we're cross-referencing them now. We got them from city records. We thought we'd put off calling his company directly in case that spooked him."

"Good thinking," said Bill.

"It's a lot to sift through. We'll put all the hits together, though."

"Start with Dumfries," said Bill. "And share them with Detective Slováček, will you?"

"Sure thing, Bill." 

After he hung up, he called the Fredericksburg precinct, though he realized too late that Art wouldn't be on shift. 

"But that guy he was gonna call showed up," said the desk sergeant. 

"What guy?" 

"Um..." She rustled some papers. "Scott Morris, the realtor. He came in first thing this morning to report that the key to a house he's working on was stolen from the lockbox."

Bill's throat went dry. "Did he." 

"Yes, sir," said the desk sergeant. "Before Art went home, he mentioned bringing this Morris fella in to talk about something that happened in one of his vacant houses. I guess he already knows." 

Bill grit his teeth. "Have Detective Spencer call me as soon as he can." 

He sat at the table alone, smoking a cigarette. He finished his coffee. Eventually, Nancy brought Brian in, and settled him down in the living room with some crayons. She made herself coffee and joined Bill at the dining table.

"Is Holden going to sleep all day?" asked Bill.

Nancy glanced at the wall clock. "I think another hour." She looked at Bill like she was going to say something, but then decided against it. She sipped her coffee.

Bill shifted. "Did he sleep this late last time?" 

"I gave it to him a lot earlier in the day last time," said Nancy. "I already called the school, it's fine." 

They sat awkwardly in the silence.

"I never... wanted you..." Bill started. He stopped. He looked down at his coffee.

"You did your best," said Nancy, after a long pause. "You didn't know how to deal with me after we lost Owen." 

"I thought I was... I was trying not to push you,” he said. "I thought I was being supportive. And you went to Dr. Bonner and you seemed to be feeling better, so..." 

"I did feel better,” said Nancy. “Eventually. Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Ever feel any better?"

Bill furrowed his brow. He had no idea how to answer that. 

"Right.” Nancy looked down at her coffee. 

Bill cleared his throat. "Valium is for panic," he guessed. "And anxiety."

"Yes.”

"How often do you... feel that way?"

Nancy huffed a laugh, her lips curling up. “When I took Valium regularly, I mostly took it to sleep. The anxiety..." she made a noncommittal gesture. "It was after the third miscarriage. It was just... all around me, all the time.”

Bill remembered that. Nancy had always blamed herself for their fertility struggles, but about five years after Owen was when she really got frantic. 

"That's when you transferred away from organized crime, too," she said, softly. 

"I... you wanted me to do that," Bill said, gently. 

"I know.” Nancy smiled sadly. “The anxiety started before you transferred. You going away on undercover stings didn't help. I thought if you were teaching, it would make me feel better. And it did, a little. But then you started going away on road school, and…”

"You needed me here," he said, belatedly, feeling like the world's biggest heel.

Nancy shrugged. "_You_ needed space. I was... a lot, back then."

Bill squeezed her hand. "No, you weren't."

"Yes, Bill, I was," said Nancy. "I had spent my entire life waiting to be a mother and it was like... my identity was disintegrating. _I_ didn't like dealing with me. I can't imagine how it was for you." 

He pulled his chair closer to hers, put his arm around her. Kissed her cheek. 

She sighed heavily. "That's when I started on Valium. Every now and then, when things got too much. Mostly to help me sleep, because... well, you were there." 

Bill nodded, and kissed her cheek again. She used to toss and turn and fret, and it was awful to watch. At least if she was having nightmares, it would mean she was _sleeping_. 

"Then after the fourth miscarriage… I went back to Dr. Bonner, and... you remember when I called it quits. When I finally accepted that I wouldn’t have a child, the anxiety got better. A little. It never went away entirely, but I... made peace with it." 

Bill frowned. "If it's still there, shouldn't you--"

Nancy shook her head. "I've seen too many over-medicated mothers in the ward. It doesn't make things _better_. It just… pushes it in.”

Bill nodded, though he didn't understand at all. “So what's that other pill?"

"Imipramine," sighed Nancy. "It's an anti-depressant. I started taking it after the fourth one, that was part of... coming to terms with it all." She ran a hand through her curls. “After Owen, Dr. Cox gave me amitriptyline. Off the books." 

Bill scowled, not liking that detail at all. But Nancy went on. 

"I didn't take it for long. It made me a zombie, and I... Dr. Bonner said that I have to feel what I feel. I had to have that year where I was useless. I guess it was more like four or five years. But I had to feel that way so I could actually heal." She squeezed his hand back. "I'm sorry I was such a nightmare.”

"I wish you had told me what was happening," said Bill.

"You didn't want to know. You didn't want to talk about it. You thought as long as I went to see Dr. Bonner and didn't make a fuss, things were fine." Nancy sniffed. "I didn't want to burst your bubble."

Bill huffed. Burst his bubble. What was he supposed to say to that? 

He frowned, confused. “Both those prescriptions were current.”

Nancy fiddled with her coffee cup. “I take the lowest dose of imipramine. It’s not like the amitriptyline haze. It just… takes the edge off, a bit. Keeps me grounded.”

"But you still have the Valium, too?”

She sighed. “I haven’t used Valium in months. And when I do, it’s just to sleep. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, and that’s partly thanks of the imipramine, too.” A long pause. “I agree that Holden is probably too young to take Valium. I don’t _love_ that I gave it to him. But Bill I… I can’t watch a child go through that and just let it happen.”

“Was it only the two times?”

“Yes,” she said. “What about you?” 

Bill blinked.

“Was it only the two times?” Nancy asked.

“Yes. Unless he was doing something that I didn’t notice.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He’s a weird kid. Once he put a blanket on me while I was sleeping, but I don’t think that was anything.”

Nancy pursed her lips. “When was the first time?” 

Bill sighed. “The second day he was here.”

Nancy balked. “What?” 

“He… it was when we were making, uh… pierogis or something. For dinner. He came to help us, and he was talking about taking the bus to Lynchburg by himself.” 

Nancy’s face softened. 

“You went to deal with Brian, and he said… he started talking about how he didn’t want to be a burden. And he wanted to know what his role here was. And he…” Bill’s throat went dry again, and he swallowed. “He touched my thigh.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I told him to… never do that again. And he didn’t, until…”

Nancy sighed. “That whole time? You never told me?” 

“We _just_ got Brian,” said Bill. “You had a lot on your plate.”

“For God’s sake, Bill.” Nancy shook her head. “He really never did anything else in between?”

Bill tried to think. “No, I don’t think so.” 

“He wanted to spend time with you,” she said, thoughtfully. “I guess he wasn’t afraid of you. Most of the time.” 

“Yeah,” said Bill.

“Everything he’s done has been to please you,” said Nancy, her tone changing, like she had an epiphany. “If it couldn’t be that… it would be something else. I guess that’s what you have to do in his situation. Appease the father.”

“Ugh,” said Bill.

Nancy stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What exactly happened last night?”

“I told you. He freaked out and he tried to—”

“No, uh-uh.” She shook her head. “Holden wouldn’t go to some liquor store after therapy to get a stranger to buy him booze. If he had been with one of his little girlfriends, I’d at least understand that. But all alone, on a school night? When he was supposed to meet _you_?” She tilted her head. “He adores you. None of this makes sense. You’re not telling me everything.” 

A door down the hall creaked open.

“Does this have something to do with those dead boys?” Nancy whispered.

Bill rubbed at his face.

“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, likewise rubbing at her face. “Maybe it’s better that I don’t know.” 

Holden shuffled into the dining room. He wore pyjama pants and an old, threadbare sweater, something he had with him when he arrived. He hugged his arms close to his chest, and stared at the floor. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Nancy gushed, getting up and giving him a hug. “How do you feel?”

“M’okay,” Holden mumbled. “Thirsty.” 

“I’ll get some water. Why don’t the three of us make a nice, big brunch, huh? Bill, come on.” 

Bill cooked up a hash with some leftovers, and scrambled some eggs. Nancy put on toast, and flitted between the kitchen and Brian in the living room. Holden hovered around, pulling at his sweater sleeves and looking incredibly worried. He avoided Bill’s gaze, his shoulders bunched up, as he slowly set the table. 

Nancy fed Brian some toast and eggs for lunch, and put on Sesame Street for him, leaving him with a sippy cup of orange juice. The rest of them sat down at the dining table.

Bill was pretty ravenous, but Holden only picked at his food. 

“Eat up, Holden,” said Nancy. “After, we’re going to have a talk about last night.” 

Holden sunk deep into himself. “Are you going to send me away?” he asked, his voice very small. 

Nancy made a sympathetic little noise. “Holden, we just want to understand what’s going on with you.” 

“I wanted to help,” Holden’s voice wobbled. “I wanted to pay you back for everything. I’m sorry if that wasn’t right.” 

Nancy’s face fell. She looked between Holden and Bill, who kept shovelling food in his mouth. “So it was on purpose. You didn’t want to get liquor at all.”

Holden shook his head, sniffling.

“You thought you could help Bill with his case?” Nancy looked aghast, and sounded utterly heartbroken. “Holden, that’s… that’s silly. What-- what if you got hurt? Or killed?” 

“I just wanted to help!” Holden’s defences were down from the Valium hangover. He wept freely, his breath hitching. “I’m sorry I screwed up. I’m sorry I ruined everything. If you’re going to send me away please just do it, don’t make me sit here and talk about it!” He covered his face with his sweater sleeves.

“Holden…” Nancy patted his shoulder and looked lost. 

Bill drained his coffee. “There’s something I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “You came to my office and decided you wanted to be an FBI agent. You were so excited. You said you were going to buckle down at school. So why risk your life?”

Holden sniffled into his sleeves, wiped at his face. 

Nancy got up from the table. 

Holden sank further into himself without Nancy beside him. “It’s not like that was ever going to _happen_,” he spat, glaring at Bill through teary eyes. “I’m so behind, there’s so much I have to do to even— to even graduate. To even _pass_. It’s too hard. I’m not going to finish.”

“Holden,” Bill sighed. 

“And even if I did, it’s not like I’m going to _college_.” Holden sniffed loudly. “It doesn’t matter. I thought if I could help you find him, then at least my life would have been worth something to somebody.” 

Nancy returned with a box of tissues, which she dropped in front of Holden. She caught him in a hug, resting her head on top of his.

“Your life is worth something to us,” she said.

Holden ducked away from her hug. “No it isn’t,” he whimpered.

“Holden,” she insisted. 

Holden pushed his plate aside, meal untouched. Put his elbows up on the table and sobbed into his sleeves. “You’re nice to me. And I like it here. But you didn’t ask for me.” He curled up on himself, burying his face in his arms. “You only took me because you _had_ to. You didn’t want me. Nobody’s ever wanted me.” 

_Nobody on this earth ever wanted me,_ Monte Rissell’s words rang in Bill’s head. He took a shaky breath. 

Nancy sat back down in her seat, leaned over, rubbed Holden’s back. “We like having you here.” She glanced over at Bill, hesitantly. “We… we want you.”

“You don’t,” Holden sobbed. 

“Holden…” Nancy gently took him by the arms and pushed him until he was sitting up.

“Can I go to my room?” he whined.

“No, we’re talking.” Nancy sighed. She wiped Holden’s face with a tissue. “Holden, we want you. And if you want to stay with us, we want you to stay with us. At least until high school’s over.”

Bill eyes widened slightly. 

Holden sniffled derisively. He stared at his lap, and then slowly lifted wet eyes to gaze Bill. “You want me,” he challenged.

Bill cleared his throat. “Y— yeah.”

Holden dropped his gaze, breathed heavily. “You didn’t want—”

The truncated word hung in the air.

“Want what, honey?” Nancy prodded.

Holden shook his head.

Nancy rubbed his back. “Holden, I know what you were trying to do with Bill in the living room last night.”

Holden twisted away from her, tried to get out of his seat, breathing fast.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she said, lightly, keeping him in place with gentle hands. “It’s okay. Nobody’s angry.”

“We’re not angry,” Bill echoed, though he felt pretty useless. 

“If that’s what you mean,” Nancy said, eyes big and worried. “Then of course— of course Bill doesn’t want that from you. You’re a kid. You don’t have to do that. We just want you to be a kid.”

Holden huffed and crossed his arms. Stared furiously at the table. Mumbled so low that Bill could barely hear: “You don’t want a fag for a son.”

Nancy’s eyes went wide. “Where did you hear a thing like that?” She glared at Bill. “Did you say that to him?”

“What?” Bill recoiled. “Of course not.” 

Nancy gave him hard eyes. “Really? You say shit like that all the time.”

Bill gawked. “Like when?”

“Smear the queer,” Nancy hissed, voice low as a whisper. “You said it to Brian at church last week!”

“That’s… that’s the name of the game,” Bill said, helplessly. 

“Well, I hate it,” said Nancy. 

Bill sputtered. “I— that’s not— that’s not what this— Holden, listen.” 

Holden just glared at the table, wiping at his eyes occasionally.

“When you got here,” Bill said forcefully. “I told you that I would never, ever want or expect anything sexual from you. Remember? I know I said it.”

Holden nodded, sniffing angrily.

“That hasn’t changed,” said Bill. “That’s never going to change. It doesn’t matter how much you piss me off, I will _never_ want that from you. And it’s not about— if you’re— that’s not it. I don’t care about—” A sharp pain twisted in his gut. He grunted and curled in on himself. “Nance, I can’t do this.” 

“Just relax, Bill,” said Nancy. “Oh, Holden, no, he didn’t mean you.” She leaned over and rubbed Holden’s back again, as the boy crumpled and started sobbing sad, hiccuping sobs. 

For a while there was only the quiet sound of Holden weeping, and Sesame Street in the other room. Bill got up to get some water for the three of them.

“See,” Holden said brokenly when Bill was in the kitchen. “I always ruin everything.” 

“No, sweetie, you didn’t ruin anything,” Nancy said. 

Bill returned with the water. “Holden,” he said, and waited until Holden lifted his head. “Last night. In the living room. Who told you to do that?” 

Holden didn’t answer. He reached for his glass of water, and cradled it in his hands.

“Okay,” said Nancy. “I think we all need to get on the same page.” She patted the boy’s arm. “Holden, Bill and I have never been parents before. And we’ve never fostered before. It had been a long time since either of us have even talked to a teenager, before we met you. So we don’t…” She shook her curls. “We’re probably pretty clueless, huh?” 

Holden sniffed. He shakily drank from his glass.

“We don’t know how foster parents are supposed to act,” said Nancy. “And we don’t know how the other foster families treated you. So… maybe they had rules, or… traditions, or something… and you’re expecting us to act like them, but we don’t know what those rules are. So you gotta help us out.”

Holden put his glass down. Put his hands under the table. Stared at his lap. 

Nancy glanced between Bill and Holden. “Holden, did they… did one of the foster dads want you to act like that?”

Holden said nothing. He barely moved, except for his shaky breathing. 

Bill grit his teeth. He’d interviewed victims and witnesses in the throes of deep mental anguish, and gotten clear answers out of them. He’d earned the trust of the most vile, evil men, and gotten them to reveal their most intimate secrets. 

He couldn’t begin to guess how to talk to Holden. 

“You know what I think would help?” said Nancy. “Maybe if Bill and I each shared something that we don’t like to talk about. Would that make you feel more comfortable talking?” 

Bill balked at Nancy. _What??_

Nancy avoided his gaze. “How about that? That way we’ll all have said something difficult, and we’ll all be even.” 

Holden didn’t respond. 

Nancy leaned down a bit, trying to catch his eye. “Holden?” 

Holden shrugged.

“Okay,” Nancy said. “I’ll go first.” She paused for a long time, and took a deep breath. “I had a—” her voice caught in her throat, and she shook her head, like she was surprised at how hard this was going to be. “I’ve had four miscarriages,” she started again. “And a stillbirth.”

Bill almost leaned back in surprise. Nancy had never, ever said the word _stillbirth_ out loud. Not to him, anyway. The closest she ever got was _we lost Owen_, or _Owen died,_ in the very few times they ever talked about it. 

Holden raised his head hesitantly. “What are— what is that?” 

Nancy sputtered a surprised little laugh. She covered her mouth.

Bill put a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to—”

“No, no.” She grasped his hand in hers. “A miscarriage is when a pregnancy terminates on its own. It goes away before the baby has a chance to be born. Lots of times, miscarriages happen before it’s really a baby. A stillbirth is, uh…” She sighed. “A stillbirth is when the baby dies… right before it’s born.”

Holden straightened a little, eyes big and sympathetic. “When it’s definitely a baby.” 

“Yes,” Nancy sniffed, wiping at tears running freely down her face. “I gave birth to a son, but he was d… he was dead.” Her voice wobbled. “And we really, really wanted him.” 

Bill grit his teeth, and squeezed Nancy’s hand. Holden and Nancy were both crying, while he sat there, dry-eyed as a psychopath.

“We named him Owen,” Nancy wept. “And, um… he would be twelve now.” 

“Thirteen,” Bill mumbled, confused. 

Nancy smiled tearfully. “Twelve. You don’t count the first year. He would have turned thirteen this October.” 

Holden bit his lip. “I’m really sorry, Nancy.”

“Aw,” she sniffled. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I just— I don’t really like talking about it because it makes me sad. And it makes Bill sad too, even though it might not look like it.” 

Bill lowered his head.

“But it helped me a lot to have people to listen, when I was ready to talk,” said Nancy. “I had my parents, and my sisters, and my friend Barbara, and my boss Dr. Cox.”

Bill scowled again. Nancy was talking to Dr. Expensive Haircut, and getting under-the-table drugs, when she wouldn’t even talk to Bill? He ignored the rest of her long list of confidants, because he didn’t want to compare it to his own list of zero. 

“If I didn’t talk to them, it would have… it would have been a lot harder. But here I am. And things are better.” Nancy smiled sadly.

Holden chewed at his lip. He nodded.

“It’s good to have people to talk to,” Nancy said slowly. “You can talk to us, if you want.” 

Holden lowered his gaze.

“And… and who else?” Nancy back-peddled. “Can you talk to Miss Wong?” 

Holden sniffled. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “And Dr. Jones, I guess.” 

“That’s good.”

Holden nodded. “And my friend Debbie. I tell her some things.” 

“Oh, good,” said Nancy.

“I, um… I didn’t tell her about what I was going to do last night, because… she would have said it was dumb.” 

Bill snorted.

Nancy smiled. “She sounds like a good friend.”

“Yeah,” Holden said, staring at his lap.

“Okay,” Nancy said, after a long pause. “I think it’s Bill’s turn.”

Bill blinked. “What?”

Nancy smiled tersely. “We’re each saying something we don’t usually like to talk about. So he feels more comfortable.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And so he feels he can trust us.” 

Holden slowly raised his head. 

“Well…” Bill sighed. “Owen.” 

Nancy gave him a flat look.

Bill shrugged.

“Bill, come on.”

Holden glanced between them. He dabbed at his face with a tissue, folding it like it was a silk handkerchief, and looked at Bill expectantly.

Bill grit his teeth. “I… had… a little brother.”

Holden nodded. He knew that. 

Nancy squeezed Bill’s hand.

“His name was Owen,” said Bill.

Holden straightened. “You named your son after him.”

Bill nodded. 

“He died,” Holden clarified. 

“Yeah.” Bill cleared his throat.

Seconds passed. On Sesame Street, the Count was laughing about numbers. Brian counted along with him, barely audible from the dining table. 

Bill looked at Nancy. He opened his mouth, but could only breathe. 

She leaned over, and ran her hand through his buzzcut, and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s okay.”

Holden looked confused.

Nancy took a hold of both their hands, one in each of hers. “Holden, we were very worried about you last night. Bill especially was very upset. And he has an extra reason to be upset.” She looked at him like _that’s the best I can do._

Holden furrowed his brow. 

“I, um…” Bill took a shaky breath. He almost said _It’s fine, I don’t want to talk about it,_ but Nancy had removed that possibility. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, and remembered that she had said the word _stillbirth_ out loud for the first time. Seemed like this was the least he could do. “Owen was murdered.”

Holden stiffened.

Bill coughed a little. He grabbed his fork with his free hand, gripped it tight. “He w…” he wheezed. “He was stabbed.”

Holden went pale. 

Nancy squeezed both their hands. 

Bill swallowed a lump in his throat. That pain his gut was back, and it throbbed with his heartbeat. “He was eighteen. He was at a… a bus station. Really late at night.” He kept his eyes fixed on his greasy plate. He felt Nancy’s hand in one of his, the fork gripped tight in the other. “And he… got into an altercation with this… this couple. They were… on some kind of drug bender. And they stabbed him. Multiple times. And he died.” 

He didn’t feel any better after saying it. It didn’t lighten any load. Instead, something sharp twisted inside him, pulled his guts even closer, made his heart even harder. It bubbled in his chest, and it made him fucking furious.

He pulled his hand away from Nancy’s, and crossed his arms, scowling.

“Thank you, Bill,” Nancy whispered. She knew better than to touch him in this state.

Holden sat stiff as a board, pale, cheeks wet. Nancy rubbed his back again, and he didn’t seem to feel it. “He was stabbed?” His voice was high and tight.

“Yeah,” Nancy whispered. 

“I didn’t know,” said Holden.

Bill huffed. “Of course you didn’t.” 

Holden’s eyes darted, like he was doing complicated math. “You were— you were scared.” He said it almost reverentially, like it was an epiphany.

Bill sighed.

“Yeah,” said Nancy. “He was really scared.” 

“Nance, come on,” Bill grumbled. He turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Holden said, voice breaking. 

“We know, sweetheart. Listen, that— that was hard for Bill to say. So you think… you think you can tell us something now?’

Holden sobbed a tiny, dry sob. “Okay…”

“I know it’s hard,” said Nancy. 

They were quiet for a while. When Bill turned back, Nancy had an arm around Holden, and was petting his head. 

Holden hunched up under her touch. He looked somewhere at Bill’s plate. “There isn’t really anything to tell.”

“Did— did any of your foster parents hit you?” 

Holden sniffled. “Pastor Walker, a few times. He’d use a yardstick. We argued a lot. He called me _incorrigible_. And then he got rid of me. That’s why they moved me to the Mullens.” 

The fury that had been twisting in Bill’s guts shot to his chest, into his arms. He huffed a grunt, and by habit, looked around for his notepad. 

Nancy gave him a _calm down_ gesture. “What about other ones?” she asked.

“Well, the… the McKees sometimes spanked us,” Holden mumbled. The McKees were the first family he lived with, in Norfolk. “But that was hardly anything. We deserved it.” 

Nancy pursed her lips, clearly not liking that answer at all. “What about the Hills? Did they ever hit?” The Hills were Holden’s second family, in Richmond.

“They spanked, too,” Holden sniffled. “But there weren’t as many kids there as with the McKees.”

“What about the Mullens?” Nancy asked nervously.

Holden shook his head. “They’d get mad sometimes, but they never hit. They were nice.” 

Nancy sighed in relief. “Okay. Um, Holden… the thing you were trying to do with Bill last night…”

Holden whimpered wordlessly. 

“We just want to understand,” she said gently. “Why did you do that? What did you think would happen?” 

Holden stayed quiet for a long time.

Bill leaned forward. Nancy made another _calm down_ gesture at him.

“Bill was really angry,” Holden said, his voice faint. “And I felt really bad about upsetting him. I didn’t mean to make him mad. I wanted to make him not be mad anymore.”

Nancy looked confused and alarmed. She swallowed back her obvious fretfulness. “You wanted him to not be mad anymore. So you decided to… do that? Even though he had told you he didn’t want you to do that?” 

Holden sighed shakily. He grabbed another tissue and pushed it against his face. “People say that they don’t want that,” he muttered. “But then they still…”

“They still make you do it?” 

Holden shook his head. “No, no. Nobody made me do it. It’s just… it’s just what you do when people are mad.”

“People?” Nancy prodded, her face heavy with worry. “Any people?”

Holden squirmed, frustrated. “Adults,” he finally spat out.

“Any kind of adults?” 

“No,” Holden whined.

“Okay. Dads?” 

Holden huffed. “I guess… men.” 

Bill put his elbows on the table, and tried not to flip the entire thing. Nancy shot him a worried glance, but he could barely keep it together enough to help her in this twisted interrogation. 

“Well…” Nancy sounded troubled. “Who taught you how to do that?”

Holden whined. “Nobody taught me. It just _is._” 

"But who did it first?"

Holden grunted in frustration. He put his arms on the table, buried his face in them. 

Nancy grabbed her own tissue, and wiped at her eyes. “Was it— was it something you saw your mother doing?”

“No, no, no, no!” Holden cried. He started sobbing again in earnest. “Mama wasn’t like that. People always say things about her, but she wasn’t like that!” 

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Nancy tried to soothe. “Tell me what she was like.” 

Holden cried into his tissue pitifully. “I know what she did. But it wasn’t like that. None of her friends could come in the house unless they were nice to her.” 

“Friends?”

“They— they were nice guys. They brought me toys. Her sailor friends would come and stay with us when they were on leave. And they were always nice to me. And nice to her. If they weren’t nice, No would kick them out! She would never, ever— she loved me.”

“I know she loved you,” said Nancy. “She was your mother. Of course she loved you.” She sighed. “I’m just trying to understand, Holden. Where did this idea come from about angry men?” 

Holden went pale, and his breath came faster. 

“Was it one of her friends?” Nancy asked.

“_No,_” Holden said emphatically. 

Bill straightened up.

“I can’t tell you,” Holden sobbed. He covered his face. “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you anything but that.” 

“Holden—”

“It’s okay,” Bill said, in his gentlest, Jim Barniest voice.

Nancy and Holden both looked up at him in surprise, obviously assuming he was sitting the rest of this conversation out.

“I understand,” said Bill. “You don’t have to say anything that makes you uncomfortable, Holden.”

The boy sniffled, staring up at Bill in confusion.

“I want to ask you some questions,” said Bill. “And you can just answer yes or no. And if you’re not sure of the answer, you can say ‘I don’t know.’ Okay?” 

“Okay,” Holden said hesitantly. Nancy rubbed his back, brow furrowed.

“Thank you, Holden,” said Bill. He swallowed hard. “Did you promise somebody that you wouldn’t tell on them?” 

“No, sir,” said Holden. 

“Okay. Did you make a secret with anybody?” 

Holden looked troubled.

“You can just say yes or no. You don’t have to say what the secret is.” 

Holden nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

Nancy made a distressed noise. She got up and went to the living room with Brian. 

Holden looked after her, face falling.

Bill leaned forward. “Hey. Holden, look at me, please.”

Holden looked at Bill, stricken. 

“Thank you. It’s okay. Nancy’s not angry. She’s just sad. It’s hard to hear sad things about someone you care about.” 

Holden didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. 

“Did anybody threaten you to keep you from telling on them?” 

Holden tilted his head. “I’m not… I don’t know.” 

“That’s okay.” Bill nodded. Gave Holden some time to breathe a little. “Sometimes, people get the impression that something bad will happen to them if they tell the truth. Or that somebody will be angry. Even if they didn’t make a real threat. Do you understand?” 

“Um… I think so.” 

“Did anybody make you feel that way?” 

Holden nodded. 

“Was it somebody from before you went into foster care?” 

Holden nodded. 

“Okay. Was it a friend of your mother’s?” 

Holden went still.

Bill took both Holden’s hands in his, very, very carefully. “It’s all right, Holden. I know you don’t want to talk about that anymore. I understand. I want to ask you something else.” 

Holden sighed a shaky breath. He grasped Bill’s hands weakly.

“This thing you do when men are angry. Did you do it to any of your other foster dads?”

Holden nodded.

“More than once?”

Holden nodded.

“Okay.” Bill gave Holden’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “Which one?” 

Holden raised his head, looking very confused. “All of them,” he said. “They all let me do it.”


	24. Tea with Wendy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Vomiting, discussion of child sexual abuse

The house was very quiet after their all-on-the-table talk. Brian went down for his nap, and Holden, red-eyed and exhausted, went back to bed as well. Nancy sat at the kitchen island with a cup of tea, her head resting in one hand. 

Everyone in the house was sad, while Bill was trying not to shake with rage. 

He kissed Nancy on the forehead. “I’m going to work,” he said.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” she pleaded.

“Nance, I— I have to get out of here for a bit. And I have to catch this guy.” 

Nancy sighed. She took his hand. “Drive safe.” 

He kissed her again, and then drove to work fast and aggressively, swearing a blue streak at anybody who pissed him off.

The relative calm of the BSU did nothing for his mood. Why wasn’t everybody as angry and frantic to catch this asshole as he was? But Gregg was typing up a transcript, and Wendy and Jim were in a meeting with Shephard. 

Melissa and Calvin, at least, were hard at work. Stacks of records and files crowded the boardroom table, half-sorted.

“These the houses?” asked Bill.

“Yep,” said Calvin. “Detective Slováček left a message. We sent her the Dumfries houses, like you asked. She canvassed the area where Ellis was dumped and has three houses she thinks he could’ve been killed in. The families of two of them seemed to check out—”

“And the third belonged to Scott Morris?”

“You got it,” said Calvin. “Lab reports on the white powder haven’t come back yet, but she says the neighbours told her he had been ripping asbestos out of that house for weeks. She’s gonna try to talk to him about Ellis.” 

“Can you call her back?” asked Bill. “Tell her that I want to be there when she talks to him.” 

“Sure, Bill.”

“What about Art Spencer? Did he call?” 

“Yeah, he did.” Melissa found her notepad. “Just said he talked to Scott Morris about his missing key. Didn’t have anything to hold him on.”

“Jesus.” Bill went to his office and closed the door. Dialled the Fredericksburg police station, and waited to get transferred to the right place. "Hey, Art.” He tried to sound affable.

"Hey, Bill! Good to hear from you.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I ended up talking to that Scott Morris guy."

"And?" Bill lit a cigarette, bracing himself.

"He seems like a really nice guy. He said somebody stole the key to this house from the lockbox, and this has happened to him before."

"He said it's happened to him before? Did he ever report it?"

"He didn't report it until now, because he changes the locks after he's done fixing up the house and it's ready for sale. So he didn't think anybody was in danger with the key being stolen. But he said this morning he also saw that somebody had been drinking on his property, and he's getting sick of this happening to him."

"Right," Bill huffed. "Well, that's convenient. What's his alibi for last night?" 

"Church with the family," he says. "Something about lighting candles?"

"Did you confirm it with his wife?"

"Confirm what?" Art sounded genuinely confused. "It's like I said, Bill, I don't think a crime was committed."

Bill sighed. "Well, does the rest of it match up with Holden's story?" 

"His physical description definitely matches, but a lot of guys match that description. But we have a picture, if you want to bring Holden back to look at an array.”

“Did you take his prints?”

“Yeah,” said Art. “He volunteered, actually. But the lab isn’t finished with the jacket yet. I don’t think they’re going to be able to lift a print.”

Bill scowled. "What about his car?"

"He came in with a pick-up truck." 

"Of course." Bill rubbed his eyes.

"Bill, I gotta say, I think you're barking up the wrong tree here." 

"Art," Bill said firmly. "I've known you a long time, but you've never had to solve a case using profiling before."

He could almost hear the young detective pouting. "That's not true. When you did your class here, you gave us a profile about that douchebag who was sexually assaulting all those women." 

Bill scoffed. "A street groper is not a hard profile to crack. There's levels to this, Art. The Quarterback Killer has left very little physical evidence on any of his murders. We have to get him talking, let him reveal something.”

Art made an unconvinced sound. “He seemed like a really good guy.” 

"Yeah, Holden did mention that he was nice and charming," Bill said with the bitterest tone he could muster.

"That's not what I mean," said Art. "It turns out that Scott Morris went to high school with my brother in King George. Before my parents moved us to Fredericksburg. They played football together."

"Are you... are you serious?" Bill balked.

"Yeah, it sounds like they got along great."

"Did you ask your brother about this?"

"Not yet," said Art. "Should I?" 

Bill almost crushed the receiver in his hand. 

“He doesn’t have any prior arrests,” Art went on. “Just a few speeding tickets. And he's a family man. Five kids? It's hard to see someone like this being able to pull off these murders."

"That is the _entire_ profile, Art! You-- you're feeding me back my own work as a reason _not_ to investigate this guy."

Art was quiet on the other end.

"I thought you were going to brief on the file I had faxed over," said Bill.

"Well... I think they did, but I'm night shift."

Bill swallowed against the gurgling, bitter heat in his stomach. "Okay. Listen closely, and then tell me if this sounds like anyone you know. The Quarterback Killer is a white man in his mid-thirties to mid-forties. He's married. He has at least one teenaged son. He probably has several children. He maintains the image of a committed family man, and is unlikely to have a prior criminal record. He runs his own business, which allows him to travel freely." Bill took a drag from his cigarette. "And in addition to all that, he's triggered by high school athletes. Either boys who look like prom king material, or boys who wear varsity jackets. With one of his victims, he took the varsity jacket off him first, killed the kid, and then draped the jacket back on him."

"Jesus," said Art.

"I wonder if Scott Morris has any history that would make a varsity letter jacket have special significance to him. Maybe something in his football days?"

"Okay, I get it," said Art.

"And then there's the typical stuff. He's probably got a domineering mother and a useless father, most of these guys do. And, we think, a brother that died when he was young.” He grunted quietly as the pain his side twisted again. 

Art was silent.

"You still there?" 

"Yes, Special Agent Tench," said the young detective. "I'm just thinking. I, uh... I'm sorry. But I didn't really have anything to keep him on."

Bill sighed, tried to stretch his back. "It's all right, I get it. I'm just-- I'm on edge. He almost got..." He sighed again.

"I could try to talk to him again?" Art offered. "This time, tell him that a kid said somebody took him to his house."

"No, he's already onto us." Bill took another long drag. "It's best to let him think he's gotten away with this one for now. Detective Slováček is going to contact him about his house in Dumfries."

"Hildy?" 

Bill scowled. _Hildy?_ "Oh, right. You guys connected us."

"I didn't realize she was still working this case," said Art.

"Yep," said Bill. "It's never-ending. The latest victim in Dumfries was dumped not ten feet away from a house Scott Morris was stripping asbestos out of. She's gonna bring him in to talk about it. Hopefully he'll go to her willingly."

"I think he will," said Art. "Considering he was only here to report a stolen key, he really did like talking to us." 

"He thinks he's bested you," said Bill. "He's going to be confident."

"Should I call Hildy?" Art asked, sounding a little nervous. "Maybe I should tell her what it was like, talking to him."

"Couldn't hurt," said Bill.

"Okay. Sorry again, Agent Tench." 

Bill grunted. That cauldron of rage in his belly that had been boiling since Nancy's terrible family discussion was calmer now, simmering low, and he was starting to get embarrassed for chewing Art out so much. "It happens. Thanks, Art." 

He wandered around the office. Gregg had left for the day, having finished typing up the transcript of his and Jim's interview. Bill found Jim and Wendy in Wendy's office. 

"How's it going, Bill?" Jim asked. "It feels like forever since I've seen you." 

Bill faked a smile. “Were you discussing something important?" 

"Planning out our move to the new office space," said Wendy. "There's room for the three of us and Gregg to have our own offices, plus one more."

“I’ve got my eye on the corner office, so you better stake out your space soon,” Jim said, grinning.

“And we were discussing Jim moving his family up here in the fall.”

“I thought Wendy would have some insights since she relocated here recently, too,” said Jim. “I was thinking somewhere in Maryland.”

“The commute would be tough,” said Wendy. “You’d have to cross the river at Alexandria.” 

“Yeah, but my wife loves the ocean,” said Jim.

“The Potomac’s nice, if you want to live closer,” said Bill. “Good fishing there.”

“I do like fishing with the kids,” said Jim.

“I’m gonna teach my son to fish, too. Once when I was little, my dad took me to--” Bill cut himself off with a hiss, clutching his side. 

Wendy looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Bill shook his head. He gritted his teeth. 

Then he bolted from the room. 

He tore down the hall to the men’s room, and barely made it to the can before puke hit the roof of his mouth. He fell to his knees, spewing his guts. 

His stomach kept heaving even when it was empty, and he found himself groaning. 

“Can you get him a cup of water?” High-heeled shoes clacked on the floor, and he felt Wendy crouch next to him. Felt her small hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

“Nnngh,” said Bill. 

Wendy’s hand moved to his shoulder, gripped firmly, made him turn. She put her other hand on his throat. “Take a deep breath,” she said. 

Bill panted. 

She frowned. “Your heart rate’s fine.” 

The door opened. Bill ducked his head, throwing an arm over his face. He heard someone filling a cup from the sink. 

“Thanks, Jim,” said Wendy. 

“No problem,” said Jim. He must’ve lingered for a while, while Bill kept his head hidden. Then footsteps, the door creaking. 

“He’s gone,” said Wendy. 

Bill sighed. He uncurled, leaning against the wall behind him. Wendy gave him the cup, and he sipped at it gratefully. 

Wendy flushed the toilet and washed her hands. She unfurled some toilet paper and folded it primly. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, handing the toilet paper over. 

He wiped at his mouth. “I don’t know. Food’s been disagreeing with me lately. I’m getting old.” 

Wendy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think you’re being entirely truthful, Bill.”

“Since when are you interested in my personal life?”

“I’m not. But it’s starting to affect your work.” She crouched down, and to Bill’s great surprise, sat directly on the dirty men’s room floor. She slipped off her heels and adjusted her pencil skirt, leaning against the wall next to him. “You’ve always been a very solid figure in my professional life. One of the most dependable features. I’ve heard people call you General Patton behind your back.”

Bill snorted. 

“So when you start falling to pieces, and letting a case affect you so greatly, I think I’m allowed to be a little concerned. Professionally.”

The men’s room had a kind of small, muffled silence to it. 

Bill stared down at the old, chipped mug in his hands. “My dad died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”

“Tuesday.”

Wendy did a double take. “_Tuesday?_ As in, two days ago?”

Bill nodded. 

“Jesus, Bill. Take a bereavement day.” 

Bill shook his head. “I don’t care. We weren’t close.” 

“I find that very hard to believe, given what just happened.”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “Last night... Scott Morris took Holden back to one of his stupid vacant houses.”

He didn’t think it was possible to shock Wendy, but this did the trick. Her hands flew to her face, and her eyes went wide. “_What?_”

“Holden escaped,” said Bill. “Called me to get him in the middle of the night. He did it on _purpose_. Put himself out as bait. He was trying to help me, he said.”

“Is he okay?”

Bill nodded. 

Wendy blinked a few times. “Good heavens,” she finally said. 

Bill snorted. “And Detective Art Spencer let Scott Morris walk away.” 

“Well,” said Wendy. “I don’t want to discuss this on the floor of the men’s room. Let’s go.”

\--

Wendy took him to an even more stuffy and academic-looking establishment than last time. When he tried to order whiskey, she levelled a delicate, patrician scowl at him. 

“You want to drink after that? They don’t have alcohol here, Bill. It’s a coffeehouse.”

Bill frowned. “Fine. Coffee, then.” 

“We’ll both have the ginger tea,” Wendy said, smiling politely at the waitress. 

Bill frowned deeper. He rested his arms on the table and hung his head, trying not to sprawl full out like this was one of his shitty greasy spoons. 

Wendy let him wallow in it for a long while, until their tea arrived. Bill made himself sit up, made himself look at the steam curling from the delicate teacup in front of him. 

“Once they’ve arrested Morris,” Wendy said, hesitantly. “I really do think you should take some time off, Bill.” 

“I was already sick this year,” he muttered. “I need to save my days in case something happens with Brian.” 

“The death of a father--”

“We weren’t _close_,” said Bill. He fiddled with his teabag impatiently. 

“I don’t think that matters so much as--”

“I hated him,” Bill said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

Wendy sat with that information for a moment. “I’m not telling you to rend your garments and weep at his grave. I’m telling you to take a day or two off to let yourself process it.”

“No offense, Wen, but this is a guy thing. It’s different with fathers and sons.” 

She glared at him. “What exactly is it that makes you think I’m some kind of pampered daddy’s girl?”

He felt his face soften. He remembered her being in the office alone at Christmas. “You don’t talk to your dad?”

“We talk,” she said. “But we don’t communicate on any meaningful level.” 

Bill sneered. “You didn’t bring me here so we could talk about our dads.”

“I think I would know my motivations better than you, Bill.”

“As soon as Scott Morris is in handcuffs, I’ll be fine.”

“Because of Holden?”

Bill shrugged. 

“And your paternal feelings towards him.”

“God, Wen, why do you have to make things weird?” Bill crossed his arms. “We’re not _girlfriends_ gossiping on the phone.” 

Wendy didn’t respond. Her face was inscrutable as always, hard and sharp. Finally, she looked away, eyes scanning over a bulletin board covered in flyers. 

Bill suppressed another one of those burps. “Do you-- do you think we _should_ be friends?”

“I don’t know, Bill. Have you ever managed to be friends with a woman?”

Bill scoffed. “I know for certain that Nancy would have problems with it.”

Wendy looked confused for a second. Then things suddenly clicked into place. “Ew.”

Bill’s eyes widened. 

Wendy shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean...” she put her hands around her teacup, and hid her face. “Ew.” 

Bill couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks.” 

“What I’m trying to say is... you need someone to talk to about these things.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure we’re _not_ friends, so you don’t need to...” Bill sighed. “Thank you for helping me in the bathroom. And for the tea.”

Wendy nodded. “Do you have friends that you can talk to? Maybe other... dads?”

Now Bill studied the flyers on the bulletin board. 

“What about Jim Barney?”

Bill didn’t answer. He liked and respected Jim Barney a lot, but he was a colleague. Bill had colleagues and he had drinking buddies. You don’t bother your colleagues and drinking buddies with stuff like this. 

After a long pause, Wendy spoke again. “My father is a professor of physics and mathematics at Princeton. He is the world’s foremost expert in his field, which is something called condensed matter physics.”

That sounded impressive to Bill, sort of. So he made an impressed face. 

“He discovered a magnetic process and they named it after him. The Carr Effect.” Wendy drew out her own surname with a bitter drawl. 

“Wow.”

She sipped at her tea. “He is profoundly disappointed in me.”

Bill recoiled. “He’s disappointed in _you?_ He must be an idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Wendy said quietly. “He’s the most intelligent person I know. There was a time when his good opinion meant everything to me.”

Bill felt very heavy on the delicate, arty wooden chair. Like it would splinter under him. He got heavier and heavier by the second. 

“We speak on the phone about twice a year,” said Wendy. “And that is the totality of our relationship. It wouldn’t be... incorrect... to say I hate him. But, as much as I wish I didn’t... I still care. Not necessarily about _him_, but about...”

“Having a dad,” said Bill. 

Wendy nodded. Sipped at her tea again. Neither of them looked at each other in the eye. 

Bill sighed. If she wanted him to talk, he supposed... 

“Nancy has been taking antidepressants. She never told me.”

Wendy was attentive. “For how long?”

“About five years.” 

Wendy tilted her head thoughtfully. 

“That’s not... too long?”

Wendy shrugged. “It’s not like antibiotics. You don’t do a course of them and then you’re done. There’s other elements to this.”

Bill scowled. “She’s always after me to _talk_ to her more. But she didn’t tell me about this. So how’s that fair?”

Wendy hesitated a moment. “Maybe she felt that your distance meant that she couldn’t trust you?”

“Distance?”

Wendy bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Bill. I’m not exactly well versed here. I can count the number of relationships I’ve had on one hand. The expert here might be Jim. Or… Gregg.”

Bill put his face in his hands. “We’re supposed to be a team. Nancy and me. I tried to be there for her, but she didn’t want to include me in this.” 

“How did she get the prescription?” Wendy asked.

Bill sighed heavily, looking away into the distance again. “She was… we had some fertility struggles. It was getting to her really badly. So she started seeing a therapist. And then she seemed to be doing better, but I guess it was because of the drugs.” 

“You didn’t go with her?”

“No,” said Bill, furrowing his brow. “It was for her.” 

“But you—” Wendy seemed to catch herself, measure her words. “The fertility struggles were both of yours. It wasn’t just her. Right?” 

Bill didn’t answer. 

“Forgive me, Bill,” Wendy said, her brow cocked like she detected a bad smell in the room. “I feel like I’ve suggested therapy to you a number of times. Or at least hinted heavily about it.”

Bill huffed. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m not so great with hints.”

“All right,” she said. “Then how’s this. Go to therapy, Bill.” 

Bill couldn’t help but physically lean back, screwing up his face. He really, really didn’t want to do that. “I don’t think that’s a good use of my time.” 

“Really,” Wendy said flatly. “Even though your entire job is dealing with the end product of people not managing their mental health?” 

“Wen, a lot of these guys _did_ have therapists, and it didn’t help.”

“Our subjects have incredibly complex issues, Bill. We’re talking about standard marital disappointments.” She looked down at her cup and muttered. “And complicated father issues.” 

“My issues with my father were _not_ complicated,” Bill muttered back.

Wendy gave him a look that he imagined she would give her stupider students. “Therapy would help you learn to talk with Nancy. If nothing else, you can focus on that.” 

Bill sipped at his tea, winced when he remembered it wasn’t whiskey. 

Wendy folded her arms on the table, leaned forward a little. “Was Holden really okay after last night? What was he thinking?” 

Bill stared down at his teacup. 

“Holden... has... a lot of problems,” he finally said. “And I don’t know how to help him. Because I don’t know the first fucking thing about being a dad.”

“Well... to be honest, the bar doesn’t seem to be set very high.”

“Yeah, right? With some of the guys we interview, it’s always about the overbearing mother. It doesn’t matter if the dad is abusive, or enabling, or if he’s just not there at all. It’s like the dad doesn’t even matter.” Bill huffed. “I thought if I paid the bills on time, and didn’t hit them, I’d already be doing better than my old man.”

Wendy nodded sadly. “Unfortunately, I think there's more to it than that.” 

“Ugh.” Bill’s stomach clenched again, and he tried not to wince too hard. Wendy still seemed to notice, eyes flicking down to his waist, but she didn’t mention it. 

“Holden adores you,” she said. “He wouldn’t stop talking about you when you brought him into work. He really looks up to you. So you’re obviously doing something right.”

“Yeah, that’s why he went out to get himself killed. He wanted to do something _nice_. Little shithead.”

Wendy furrowed her brow. 

“And he does this thing--” Bill bit himself off. Looked around, made sure no one was eavesdropping. “Twice, he’s tried to... I don’t know, jerk me off or something.”

“Jerk... what?” Wendy looked confused. 

Bill shifted uncomfortably. Gestured vaguely. Didn’t know the words. “He’s touched me. He thought I wanted something sexual.”

“Oh, no,” said Wendy. “That’s a shame.”

Bill scowled at her relatively staid response. “It gave me a heart attack, Wendy.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m just not... terribly shocked, given how many foster families he’s had. Has he ever done anything to Brian?”

“No,” said Bill. “What?? Do you think he would??”

Wendy shook her head. “No, no. Holden seems like a very nice boy. It’s just... sometimes, children molesting younger children is a sign that it’s happened to them.”

Bill rubbed his face and groaned. 

Wendy tucked her hair behind her ear. “Sometimes I forget when I’m not discussing subjects or hypotheticals. I apologize if I overstepped. 

“I don’t think he’s done anything to Brian. But last night he tried to open my _fly_.”

Wendy blinked, like it was all coming together for her. “Because you were angry.”

“Yeah!” Bill tried not to flail, aware of their environment.

Wendy tilted your head. “And he... was scared of you?”

Bill stared at the table. 

“Bill, it’s okay,” she said. “You’re scary to a lot of people.”

That awful little burp bubbled up inside him. Bill swallowed hard. 

“It sounds like Holden has had some traumatic formative experiences,” said Wendy. “And what he needs most from you is a safe environment, and good boundaries.”

“I would love more boundaries, trust me,” said Bill. 

“Well, boundaries, but a hug now and then would be good, too. I mean… maybe with Nancy in the room.”

Bill sighed. 

“But he’s going to therapy, right?”

Bill nodded.

“Then he’ll learn to manage his symptoms of abuse,” Wendy said gently. “You can provide some tools, but you can’t erase his past. That’s bigger than you.”

Bill sighed. He grudgingly sipped at his tea.

“All you can do is keep him healthy, and make him feel safe, and let him know that he’s...” she looked to be searching for the word. “That he’s accepted.”

“I’m supposed to make him feel safe and accepted,” Bill echoed. 

“That’s what I think.”

He swallowed that burp again. Then, in a way, he let it out. “I almost punched him once. When he got suspended.”

Wendy’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t look at surprised as he’d thought. 

“I nearly broke down his fucking door. I only stopped because--” Bill’s voice broke. He covered his face with one hand, and breathed hard. He was _not_ going to act like a pansy in a fucking coffeehouse, talking to a female colleague. This whole situation was already too queer all around. “Jesus, Wendy. All I had to do was pay the bills and _not_ hit him, and I could barely do that.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe. He felt her hesitantly pat his arm. 

“That was a survival mechanism for him,” she said. “Someone made him do it before.”

Bill sighed shakily. “He said all four of his foster dads _let him_ do it.”

Wendy balked. “All of them?”

“Some were better than-- fuck, no. They were all assholes. But he said they never initiated it. He learned it _before_ foster care.”

Wendy looked disgusted. “His biological father?”

Bill grit his teeth. “He was never around. But it would have to be someone his mom knew.” His stomach clenched as he realized that even when they got Scott Morris safe behind bars, this wouldn’t be over. 

He’d have to find Noah fucking Graham. 

\--

Wendy drove him back to the Academy so he could get his car. 

“If your stomach’s really been bothering you that much, you should see a doctor about it,” she said. 

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said. “Just some heartburn and indigestion.”

“I don’t understand why men your age just accept it when their bodies start to decline. You could have a much nicer dotage if you just took care of yourself.”

“God, Wen, I’m married to a nurse. Okay? I don’t need more of it at work.” He grumbled as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “If this is what it’s like being friends with a woman, maybe I won’t bother.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. 

Bill sighed. “Thank you for the tea. And the talk. And for the ride back.” 

“My pleasure,” she said. “Give Holden a hug for me.” 

He stared at her. 

“I’m glad he’s safe,” she said. 

“You know... maybe you should foster him, instead.” 

She made a sound that was too distinguished to be a laugh, but was still very dismissive. 

“I’m serious. You’re both nerds, and you’re both weird. He’d hang off your every word. You could watch foreign movies and read about… Marxist feminist whatever.” 

“Goodnight Bill,” she said, pointedly. 

“Goodnight.” He got out of the car. 

“Make an appointment with the doctor.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, slamming her car door shut. 


	25. Good Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill learns something about Scott Morris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Sorry for the absence. Here is a short chapter. I've been struggling a lot with writing for mostly obvious reasons, but figure you guys have been waiting long enough!

Friday morning was tense, and endless, and seemed utterly pointless to Bill, with his mind fixated on one thing. They had a budget meeting with Shepard, and a session to analyze their interviews and consult on a profile for something that happened in Texas. Bill could not bring himself to care about any of it. 

Finally, after lunch, he got the phone call he’d been waiting for. 

Bill hastily hung up the phone and hurried to get his coat on. He peeked into Wendy’s office, where she was discussing something with Jim. 

“Hey, I’m heading out,” he said. “Probably going to be gone the rest of the day.” 

"Where are you going?"

"Dumfries. Scott Morris is coming in to talk to Detective Slováček. I’m going to interview him."

"You? Directly?" Wendy crossed her arms. "Everyone has our profile by now. I'm sure they can handle it."

Bill shook his head. "I have to be there. I can't trust anyone else with this."

Wendy clenched her jaw. "I know you're committed to this case," she said slowly. "But you have to be careful.” 

"I know what I'm doing.” 

“Just be sure--" 

"Wendy, he almost got my kid." 

Heavy silence fell over the basement. 

Wendy tightened her grip on her biceps. “Just be careful you don't do anything to jeopardize the prosecution," she said. 

"I won't," Bill said, though he wasn't sure he was entirely thinking straight at the moment. "Jim, you want to come?”

"Of course." Jim was already putting on his own coat. "Lead the way." 

\--

The Dumfries police station was as quiet and cramped as any other of these small town outposts. Bill was surprised to find Detective Art Spencer in the precinct lobby, sitting nervously with a large paper bag on his lap. “Special Agent Tench.” He stood to greet them.

“Hey, Art. This is Special Agent Jim Barney. Jim, Detective Art Spencer, Fredericksburg PD.” 

“Nice to meet you. Uh, listen, Agent Tench," Art said bashfully. "I wanted to, uh... well, here's Holden's jacket.” He lamely proffered the paper bag to Bill. 

“Thanks,” said Bill, peeking inside. He felt a strange surge of protectiveness at the sight. There were still some small grass and mud stains on it. 

“I hope Holden’s doing okay. And, um..." Art went on. "Well, I spoke with my brother."

"Oh?" Bill glanced over his shoulder at Jim, who raised a brow. 

"Yeah, and he, uh... well, he had something interesting to say. He's around here somewhere, he went to get--"

"Where's Morris?" Bill cut him off. 

Art nodded, straightening up. "He's in the back, with Hildy."

"I want to see him," said Bill. 

Art took Bill and Jim back to the observation room. Officer Sylvester Key, sitting in front of the one-way and taking diligent notes, looked up at them. 

"Key," Bill said. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Hello, sir. Sir." Key stood, nodded at both of them. He was wearing a suit instead of his uniform. It was a little short in the cuffs, and reminded Bill of Holden’s church suit. 

"Does Manassas PD know you're down here?" asked Bill. 

"No, sir," he said. “It’s my day off. But I, uh-- I wanted to be here. I wanted to help Hilde finish it best I could. So we can close the Samuel Raza case.” 

"Good man." Bill patted Key on the shoulder, and set down the paper bag on the little table Key was sitting at. “Is your visit here off the record?”

“Yes, sir,” Key said nervously.

Bill glanced over at Jim, who nodded. “Well, we won’t say anything if you don’t. How’s our girl doing?” 

"Oh, she's just stalling for now,” said Key. “Getting him comfortable. It's not hard. He's a talker." 

In the interrogation room, Scott Morris looked utterly at ease. He was dressed similar to how Bill had seen him, and similar to how Holden described— a dark polo shirt under a black jacket. Jeans. He lounged back in his chair, arms stretched behind his head, one foot resting on the other knee. Bill squinted. Morris wore tan coloured boots, the kind that were often steel-toed. 

An open box of donuts sat on the table, and some styrofoam coffee and water cups. Slováček herself perched on the table, body language casual, one leg loosely crossed at the ankle, pointing towards Morris. 

“That’s the key to the whole thing,” said Morris. “You have to make sure you’re buying in a market where people are going to want to live in the future.” 

“So that’s why you get houses near DC.” Slováček tilted her head, and sounded like she was guessing. “Because lots of people work there?” 

Morris smiled in the way that men do when they think they’re smarter than women. “There’s more to it than just work. When someone decides to buy instead of renting, it’s because they want to set down roots for the future. And what are people going to need in the future?”

Slováček looked at him with wide eyes. “Jet packs?” 

Morris laughed. “Schools. You buy the lots or the houses before anyone else, then when people have kids, they’ll pay you anything to live close to a school.” 

“Oooh,” Slováček said, gently knocking her foot against his. “That’s a really great business plan. Colour me impressed.” 

Morris smiled widely, gazing up at her, totally charmed. 

Bill didn’t _love_ what Slováček was doing. But in the moment, he couldn’t think of anything but getting his hands around Scott Morris’s stupid, pale throat. Bill’s hands were flat on the little table, the paper bag with his jacket sheltered by his arms. He dug his nails into the table so hard they left marks. 

“She’s got him eating out of her hand,” said Jim. 

"Yeah, she's something else,” Art said wistfully. “She could sweet talk anyone.” 

Bill looked at Art sidelong. "She's married, you know."

"I know," Art frowned. "Anyway. Um. She'll be happy you're here. She said you two have a way of cracking these guys."

Bill sighed. He hoped she was right.

“Artie, you in here?” a loud male voice called out. A balding man shoved the observation door wide open. He had a can of soda pop and a chip bag under his armpit. An exasperated-looking female uniformed officer stood behind him.

“Oh hey, Huey,” Art said, starting to sound as exasperated as the female officer looked. “Found that vending machine, huh?” 

“Yeah. Selection was ass, though.” 

“Bill, Jim, this is my brother Huey,” Art said, his mouth an unhappy, straight line. 

“Hey guys!” said Huey, ripping open his bag of chips.

“Why do you sound familiar?” asked Jim.

“Huey’s a radio host,” Art said, unenthusiastically. 

“WNVO in Arlington, the NOVA!” Huey grinned. “Playing Northern Virginia’s hottest rock!” 

“He’s a morning host,” Art mumbled. 

“The rush hour rush with Jimmy and the Howler!” Huey went on. 

“He’s the Howler,” Art added unnecessarily.

“Awooo!” Huey howled.

Bill tensed, glancing through the one-way glass.

Before Slováček could react, if she had actually heard the noise, Art slapped a hand over Huey’s mouth and dragged him out of the room. 

Bill and Jim shared a glance. 

“Is there a reason we need to talk to this guy?” asked Jim.

“Yes,” Bill said, grimly. “I think Art’s too embarrassed to tell me himself.” 

Bill and Jim stepped into the hallway and closed the observation room door.

Huey— taller and thicker than Art, almost completely bald, and wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and tennis shoes like a guy half his age— had twisted out of Art’s grasp and turned the tables. He had Art tucked under one arm in a headlock, rubbing his knuckles against Art’s head, hard. His snacks were on the ground, chips strewn everywhere.

“Huey!” Art cried when he clocked Bill and Jim staring at them, voice mortified and helpless in the manner of a little brother. "Fuck-- stop it! Tell the _Special Agents_ what you told me about Scott Morris."

"Oh, you guys are FBI?" Huey didn't stop messing with Art, throwing words casually over his shoulder. "Man, Artie, you must’ve dropped a real turd if they had to call in the big boys.” 

Bill frowned. "Maybe stop horsing around in the middle of a police station,” he commanded, using a voice that usually got young cops standing up straight. 

Huey laughed, and pushed Art away with another rough rub on his head. 

Art shoved him back, scowling. 

"Okay, okay," Huey put up his hands in a placating gesture. "Little Artie was telling me about this real estate person, who _he_ thought was just the _nicest_ guy."

Art bristled, adjusted his coat. 

“That was him, wasn’t it?” Huey asked. “That guy with Artie’s hottest ex. He did something weird, didn’t he?” He grinned, eyes bright. “Did it involve women’s underwear? I always thought it was going to be something with women’s underwear.” 

Bill clenched his fists, tried not to chip a tooth from grinding. 

“What is it you want to tell us, Huey?” Jim asked. Thank God for Jim Barney. Even the way he crossed his arms was non-threatening. 

Huey rolled his eyes, which was even more annoying on a middle aged man than on a teenaged boy. "Scott and I both went to high school in King George.”

“You were on the football team together,” said Bill. 

“He wishes!" Huey laughed. "That twerp was our _water boy_. He wanted to be on the team, but he never made the cut. And it wasn't because he was scrawny. He was just..." Huey made a vague, dismissive hand gesture. "Let's just say he wasn't a team player."

"Okay," said Jim.

"And he wasn't super coordinated. But Artie said that _he_ said he was on the team with me? Wasn’t shocked to hear he was one of these idiots who pretends he was quarterback when he wasn't, you know?"

"He never said he was quarterback," Art said hurriedly. 

Huey made another dismissive gesture, and Art bit his lip, looking at the ground. 

“We weren't assholes to him or anything," Huey said. “Not at first. Scott was a _weirdo_. Especially towards the cheerleaders. He didn’t seem to understand that just because you put on a uniform, doesn’t mean a cheerleader’s going to like you. And he couldn’t take a hint. He couldn’t do any of the drills, he'd get real aggressive if Coach or the captain tried to tell him anything. Honestly, they let him be water boy out of pity."

"His, uh, his mom was apparently a piece of work," Art chimed in. 

"Art, shut up," said Huey. "I never met his mom, but that's what the rumour was. Coach was kind of afraid of her, so he let Scott be water boy and tag along.”

“I played high school football,” said Bill. “And the coaches never indulged someone they didn’t think had potential.” 

“Yeah, well,” Huey shrugged. “Coach wasn’t usually like that, either. I guess he thought it was easier to placate Scott’s mom than deal with her. And because we all loved Coach so much, when he told us to be nice to Scott, we did it.” 

“Tell them about the party,” Art mumbled. 

“Right, yeah. So we partied a lot, obviously. We would try to plan them _around_ Scott, but he always found out and he always showed up. I mean, he was cool sometimes, he could act normal for a short while, but he was so… desperate for attention. From anyone. He _knew_ we tried to keep the parties secret from him. I wouldn’t want to go to one if I knew that, would you? Like, find a friend somewhere else, dude. And then, this one time…” 

Huey’s face darkened, and he paused long enough for Bill and Jim to share a glance. 

Art nudged Huey. “Come on,” he said softly.

Huey sighed. “So this one time… I think it was at Donnie Gintley’s house. Scott shows up, and we’re all like, whatever. We’re all real sick of his shit by now, nobody will talk to him. So at one point I go to use the bathroom and when I opened the door, Scott was just standing there. And he’s obviously wasted. He wasn’t that big a guy, but he was always trying to keep up with us.” 

Huey paused again, eyes darting, obviously unsure how to continue.

He inevitably decided to just spit it out. “He pushed me back into the bathroom and shoved his hand in my pants." 

Bill's chest got tight. He swallowed against it. 

"I— I shoved him off. Gave him a good pounding. Not like that!” 

“Ugh, Huey,” said Art. 

“I just taught him a lesson. I mean, I wasn’t _offended_. Obviously I’m a catch, and men and women alike can’t help themselves. But back then… I couldn’t let anyone know what happened. And you don’t just spring something like that on someone without any warning.” Huey frowned, bristling. 

“Yeah, I get it,” said Bill. He thought Huey only halfway understood why this incident actually upset him so much, and it wasn’t the threat to his reputation. 

“And then he just… started _crying_,” Huey said, disgust in his voice. “He wouldn’t stop. He said he just wanted me to hold him? It was fucking weird.” Huey flinched slightly, then shook his head. “So I got out of there. Found my girl and went home. And uh— I never told anybody about it, until Artie. And now you guys.” He mumbled the last, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. 

“I meant the other party,” Art muttered. 

Huey scowled. “So after that… happened… it was like he was trying to prove his manliness or something? This other party he got really handsy with this cheerleader Laura. Like… _really_ handsy. Had her cornered, even though she was screaming at him to stop. Three of us had to pull him off. We all gave him a _real_ beating that night. Told him to get lost. You don’t do that to girls.”

Bill looked at Jim. “What do you think?”

“Well, it’s good to know,” said Jim. “We never found any record of assault for him. Even if this girl filed a complaint, he was a minor, so we wouldn’t have found it.”

“Could be handy in the interview,” said Bill.

“And the football stuff is starting to become a little clearer.”

“There’s more,” said Art. He looked imploringly up at his brother. 

Huey blinked. “Oh yeah,” he said, like he was just remembering. “So I didn’t know this, because it was before my time. But after that thing with Laura, all of us guys got together and told Coach what had happened, and that we didn’t want Scott around anymore.” 

Bill refrained from shaking his head. He’d heard of plenty of high school teams working together to commit sexual assault. This was possibly the first time he’d heard of them working together to _prevent_ it. He had a feeling if the perpetrator was a well-liked quarterback, or Huey himself, rather than _annoying twerp Scott Morris_, the story would be a little different. 

Not that it changed what he wanted to do to Morris, nor did it pause the running movie montage in the back of his mind— himself strangling, stabbing, or stringing up Scott Morris in increasingly creative methods. 

“A bunch of rumours went around after that,” continued Huey. “We were gossiping like old ladies. Finally Coach had to tell us the story to get everyone to stop being little girls about it. Scott had a big brother. He, the brother, was a big star at King George football back in the day. Coach was junior coach for the brother, and he just loved him. Took the team to state championships three years in a row.”

Bill frowned. Art gave him a trepidatious look. 

“And then he just _died!_ Just like that! Eighteen years old. Brain aneurysm. Nobody had any idea he had it, and then just one day— pop!” Huey clapped his hands, hard, in front of Bill’s face. 

Bill stepped back, scowling. 

“You ever heard something so crazy? Danger lurking around every corner. That’s why _I_ live every day like it’s the last,” Huey proclaimed. “Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse.”

Art rolled his eyes. 

“You were right,” Jim said, brow furrowed. “How’d you know?”

Bill didn’t feel great being right. That roiling fucking sickness in his gut was still there, after all that puking and ginger tea. “It just… looked like it,” he said weakly. “Do you have a name for the brother?”

Huey shook his head. “I think it was Travis or Trent or something. Trrr… Toreador? I don’t know.”

“How old was Scott when his brother died?”

“It was my senior year when Coach told us, and he said it happened ten years before that. Scott was a sophomore, so… I guess five or six?” Huey shrugged. 

“Hmm,” said Bill.

“Must’ve fucked him up,” said Huey. “I mean, obviously it did, because he was a freaking weirdo. I can’t believe he found a girl just as weird as him to knock up.”

“Huey,” said Art.

“Fucked that whole family up,” Huey said. “That’s why Coach was afraid of the mom, I bet. She kind of blamed the team for the aneurysm, but she also really wanted Scott to be just like his brother? Fucken weird. Broads, man. Hey,” Huey had been lazily shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved into his jean pockets. He straightened up, put his hands together in an inauthentic pleading gesture. “Am I going to be able to, like, testify in court?”

“I’m sorry Agent Tench,” Art muttered, though it wasn’t entirely clear what he was apologizing for. “I guess I— the profile didn’t really cinch for me until I heard that part. I should have been more on the ball. I hope there’s something I can do to help.”

“You can get him out of here, for starters,” Bill grumbled. 

Art tried to hurry his brother away with a firm grip on his arm. 

“I’m gonna say on my show, though,” Huey said as they walked out of the precinct. “That the FBI _consulted_ me.”

“No, Huey, oh my god,” Art sighed.


	26. The Quarterback Killer

When Jim and Bill returned to the observation room, Slováček was in there talking to Key. “Special Agents, you’re here!” She shook both their hands, a far cry from the ditz she was playing earlier in the interrogation room. “Who was that shouting before?” 

“Detective Spencer brought in his brother,” Jim said, because Bill was frowning too hard to talk. 

Slováček blinked. “Oh, I forgot about Huey. God, that’s right. Morris mentioned he went to King George High.” 

“According to Huey, he’s lying about everything that happened there,” said Jim. “He was only the water boy, but he’s telling people he played on the football team.”

“Figures,” said Slováček. “He really seems to like playing himself up. It’s kind of sad, actually. Makes me wonder what his day to day life is like.” 

“Did you get much out of him?”

“No, I didn’t want to scare him off. We mirandized him to cover our bases, but he’s not under arrest.” 

“Well, the fact that he’s still here is good,” said Jim. “He’s confident. What do you think, Bill?” 

By this point, Bill had drifted to the two-way glass, and glared through it as if his gaze would make it melt. Morris, primly eating a donut, looked oblivious and full of himself. Not particularly huge, or exceptional in any way. Normal looking. Bland. A fucking worm. 

“I think I’ve warmed him up,” Slováček said hesitantly. “He seems pretty comfortable in there.” 

Bill turned to her. “Is that a usual tactic of yours?”

“Is what a usual tactic of mine?” she said, voice flat. 

“Playing dumb like that,” said Bill. “Flirting.” He clenched his fists. The thought of going in there and acting all sweet to this sack of trash turned his stomach. 

“No, it isn’t. And when I got promoted to detective, I told myself I wasn’t going to have to do stuff like that anymore.” Slováček crossed her arms, scuffed her shoe, looked like a sulky kid. “It’s not my fault he responds better to a non-threatening woman than to a competent one.” 

“That’s a good point,” said Jim. 

“I don’t think it’s any different than what you did last time,” she added. “With Ian Maynard.” 

“What I did?” Bill balked. 

“Not you. Agent Barney.” Slováček straightened, raised her head. “He was nice to him, and patient. And he listened. But if we had kept bullying him…” she gestured between herself and Bill. “_You_ said we would have gotten a false confession.” 

“She’s right,” said Jim. “It’s not different from anything we do.” 

Bill didn’t argue. He just grit his teeth, and must’ve made a pretty ugly face, because Slováček and Key both took a small step back. 

“We can’t barge in there guns blazing, like he’s the enemy.” Jim approached Bill gently, lowered his voice. “It’s okay if you want Slováček and I to take over, Bill. Sit this one out.”

“Why?” asked Slováček. “What’s going on? Why do you need to sit it out?”

Bill sighed wearily. Looked between Jim, Slováček, Key. Crossed his arms. 

Jim gave him a soft look. “Bill’s kid went home with Morris the other night. Almost became another victim.”

Slováček’s eyes went huge. Key’s, too. “Are you kidding me? Your own son?”

“He’s a foster,” Bill muttered. “I can still interview Morris.” 

“Are you sure?” asked Jim. 

The challenge to his control made Bill want to lose it completely, made him want to punch a hole straight through the two-way and drag Morris across the table. It was like what he had wanted to do to the Pinto driver, except worse, and he wanted it to never stop. 

This was not professional. He was fucked. 

“No, I’m not sure,” he finally admitted. “Slováček, it’s your case. If you want me to stay here and just give guidance occasionally, I can. It’s up to you.” 

Slováček bit her lip. She and Key looked at each other, the silent, secret signal that develops between partners on a case. 

“Do you think you’re compromised?” she asked. 

“I know I’m compromised,” said Bill. “But I think I can keep a lid on it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She mulled it over, eyes darting slightly. “You listened to us about Sammy Raza. I don’t think I can do this on my own. I’d like your help, still.” 

“Good,” said Bill, picking up the paper bag. “Because I have a plan.” 

—

“Hey Scott!” Slováček chirped as she went back into the interrogation room, carrying a full pitcher of water. “Hope you weren’t too bored waiting here.” She had transformed into some younger, stupider version of herself, smiling widely, her voice pitched soft and high. 

Morris, who had been resting his head on crossed arms on the table, looked up. A slow smile spread over his face when he saw her. “No problem, Detective,” he said gently. “You think we’re going to be much longer, though?”

“Oh, not at all.” She propped the door open with one leg. She’d taken her ponytail out, and her blonde hair swished as she nodded at Bill and Jim, who came in behind her. “Got some guys here who need to ask you some questions, though. It won’t take long, and we’ll get out of your hair.” 

Morris said up straight. “Hey. Haven’t we met?”

Bill made a face like he was struggling to remember. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “At our kids’ school, I think? Special Agent Bill Tench.” He put out his hand. 

As Officer Key slipped into the room with a banker’s box, Morris stood, and shook Bill’s hand, charming as can be. “Good to see you again, man. Scott Morris.” 

“This is Special Agent Jim Barney.”

Jim mirrored Morris’ grin back at him as they shook hands. “Pleasure.” 

They had decided to let Morris decide whether he remembered meeting the both of them. If Morris remembered meeting Jim at an open house in Manassas, he didn’t let on. It would probably be too suspicious, considering Jim had asked him about Samuel Raza. 

Though Bill was pretty certain he remembered every moment of that conversation, and probably delighted in the remembering. 

“Please, it’s all mine,” said Morris. He settled back down in his seat and, with a wink, gratefully accepted a cup of water from Slováček. “Special Agents, huh? You guys FBI or something?”

“Or something,” Bill said. 

Key left the banker’s box on a side table behind Bill and Jim, under the two-way mirror. 

“Thanks Sly,” said Slováček, and the young officer left with a nod. 

Bill gestured at the box of donuts on the table. “Are these…?”

“Help yourself,” said Slováček. Casually, she reached for the tape recorder sitting on the table. It had been recording her small talk with Morris, and the time he was sitting alone in the room. She made sure it was still recording, and pulled it closer to the centre of the table. 

Bill sat directly across from Morris, with Slováček on his right hand side. He grabbed at a donut, and started eating messily. 

“So, uh…” Morris cleared his throat. “Why exactly does the FBI want to talk to me?”

Bill grunted around his full mouth, swallowed quickly. “I’m sure Hildy told you about this poor dead kid they found.”

“Yeah,” said Morris, face grim. “That’s a real shame.” 

Bill looked down at himself, dusted crumbs and sugar off his chest. “It is. Hey, Jim.”

Jim stood in front of the banker’s box, and had taken out a file from inside it. “Yeah?”

“What was this kid’s name, again?”

Jim came over to sit next to Bill, and flipped through the thick file. “Antoine Ellis. Sounds like he was a good kid. Played on the baseball team. I was on the baseball team in high school. Makes you think, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Morris. “Stuff’s a real head trip.” 

Bill noisily finished off his donut, boorishly knocked crumbs off his hands. “Nobody can figure out who killed him. Hildy’s doing her best, but she’s stumped.”

Slováček shrugged. 

“And here’s the thing,” Bill went on. “There’s other boys all around Virginia who were killed the same way, and everyone’s just as stumped for those cases.”

Jim shook his head. “Whoever did this is a genius.” 

“So that’s why the FBI is involved,” Morris said slowly. “Because it’s happening in different towns?”

Bill beamed. “That’s right. We’ve got a whole unit for people who murder more than one person.” 

“You do?” Morris looked a little surprised. 

“Well, it’s new.” Bill looked over at Jim. “We’re not exactly popular in the Bureau, are we, Jim?”

Jim snorted. “Kind of felt like a demotion, to be honest. Like, what did I do to end up with this shitty assignment?” 

Morris huffed a laugh, sitting loosely, like he was mirroring Jim’s body language.

“I mean, it’s just unlikely,” said Bill. “These kids, when we first got reports of them, we figured, you know, hazing. Alcohol. Sex with the wrong girl.” 

“Boys will be boys,” said Slováček. “I bet you got in trouble too, right Scott?” She winked.

Morris lowered his head slightly, bashfully. 

“But somebody noticed something weird. One of the guys in our unit, he figured out that the fields where these boys were dumped all had new houses near them.” Bill smiled affably at Morris. “And you were the only realtor who had a house for sale near every single one of the dump sites.” 

Morris straightened. He looked appropriately confused and surprised. “Huh,” he said. 

“You find that troubling?” Bill prodded. 

“Well, yeah,” said Morris. “Oh, shit. Listen, I— I’ve been having this problem with kids sneaking into my empty houses.”

Jim and Bill shared a confused look. “How’s that?”

“Well, you keep the house key in a lockbox on site. Sometimes kids get in there and snatch the key. Use the empty house for parties. A couple times now, I’ve gone to check in on a house and I’ve found beer bottles and stuff. But it happens. It’s one of the risks of flipping houses.”

“Flipping houses?” Bill squinted. 

“Buying a house to fix it up and turn a profit,” explained Morris. “Without a third party company or realtor. It’s just me, I own the houses and I sell them. I don’t sell someone’s house for them.” 

“Oh,” said Bill. “How long have you been doing that?”

“Almost six years,” said Morris. “It grew pretty slowly. Took a long time before it really got some momentum.” 

“Still, working for yourself,” Jim said. “The American dream.”

“Yeah,” Morris grinned. “But, you know, it has risks, and one of them is that if you leave a house empty long enough you might get kids breaking in to throw parties. Or squatters, but thankfully that hasn’t been a problem for me.” 

_Lucky for the squatters,_ Bill thought. “Hey Scott, you mind if I smoke?”

Morris shook his head. “Feel free.”

“Did you report any of these break ins?”

Morris sighed, and hung his head. “Not until recently. I thought it was harmless, boys will be boys, like you said.” He nodded at Slováček, whose shoulders went up in flattery. “I change the locks when the houses get sold, so I didn’t see the danger. But…” 

Bill and Jim let him sit silent for a while. Bill flicked ashes off his cigarette. 

“If you think someone used one of your houses for these murders,” he said gently. “That would be a really great lead for us.”

Morris sighed again. “I just feel sick about it. It didn’t occur to me that someone might use the key to do something worse. This is… oh, God.” 

“Hold on now,” said Jim. “We don’t _know_ that anything happened in one of your houses, and if they did, we don’t know they got in using a stolen key.”

Morris nodded, face looking grim. “Okay.”

“So don’t worry about it,” said Jim. 

“But right now, you’re the best resource we have,” said Bill. 

“Jeeze,” said Morris. 

“I know. No pressure.” Bill grinned. “You said you didn’t report the break-ins until recently. Did you end up reporting one?” 

“Well…” Morris shrugged. “Yesterday, I noticed it again, in this house in Fredericksburg. Some beer bottles and stuff, I mean. And I guess I just got fed up. I had the locks changed right away, and I went to report it.” 

Bill nodded, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep from glaring furiously.

Morris spoke so matter-of-factly about this house in Fredericksburg, and all Bill could think about was Holden in that wretched place, Holden strung up by his wrists on a chain in the basement, Holden intoxicated and loopy from his half-bottle of beer or whatever it was. The kid was so open and trusting when Nancy first gave him Valium. It hit him hard. Drooling, stumbling, vulnerable. Bill had forgotten how lightweight young people could be, even if they were tall and fit and almost fully grown. Bill forgot how sensitive a pristine, untouched brain really was. 

Bill first got drunk in Korea, one of a passel of boys drinking trench-still moonshine far more powerful than they anticipated. None of them could hold their liquor. Thankfully, they were watched over by older soldiers without sinister intent.

He remembered helping other soldiers walk, their arms slung over his shoulders, wobbling and floppy. He couldn’t stop thinking about Holden like that, malleable, helpless. Dead. Rotting. 

He almost snapped his cigarette in half between his fingers.

“Well, reporting it was the right thing,” Jim was saying to Morris. “You might have saved a kid. I haven’t heard about any dead boys in Fredericksburg. Have you, Hildy?”

She shook her head. “No, sir.” 

“I’m still freaked out about the others,” said Morris. “I had no idea.” 

“Yeah, there’s too much to keep track of,” said Jim. “Especially if you— have you got kids, Scott?”

“Yeah. Five.”

“_Five_?”

Bill snorted. “That is a lot of fucking kids.”

“Yeah, well,” Morris shrugged sheepishly. “I started early. And then it just… kept happening.” 

“How early?” Jim asked, face open and curious. He had a way of asking everything so innocuously, like it was your idea to divulge the answer or not. 

“Seventeen,” said Morris. “It was… well…” his gaze fell down over the table, almost shamefully. “Let’s just say we wouldn’t have been each other’s first choice. But we were Catholic. So we had to get married. Dropped out of school.” 

“Ooph,” said Jim. “That’s rough.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” said Bill.

Morris nodded, pursing his lips in a thoughtful expression. He straightened up and smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. And I did. Got a job out at a cigarette factory.” 

“The big one down in Richmond?” 

“Yeah. It was okay.” 

“That seems dangerous,” said Slováček. “A cigarette factory?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” said Morris. “You don’t really touch the machines very much. Mostly just watch them. It was pretty boring.” 

“Not exactly glamorous,” said Bill. 

Morris snorted a laugh. “Yeah, my wife and mom would always complain about how I smelled. Not that I could do anything about it.” 

Jim tilted his head. “Mom? You still lived with her after you got married?”

Morris’ face darkened slightly. “Well, we didn’t have any money at first. I thought— I guess I was pretty stupid about it. When Gillian and I came around to the fact that we’d have to get married, I thought, well at least I can move out of mom’s. Have a job, have my own place, my own family. Have some freedom. But I was seventeen. What did I know? Kids are expensive. Mom said it just made more sense for us to stay there.” 

Slováček blinked slowly. “There, as in King George? But the cigarette factory was in Richmond?”

“Yeah, it was an hour’s drive each way,” said Morris. “I didn’t mind the drive, honestly. Some time to myself. And I would crash with a friend in Richmond during the week sometimes.”

“That’s smart,” said Bill. 

“I would’ve done it more often, but… it was hard on Gillian behind left alone with my mom.” Morris inhaled deeply. “Mom was… she’s always been difficult. She got better after Trevor was born.” 

“That your oldest? Trevor?”

Morris didn’t respond right away. Then he smiled, a deliberate thing that didn’t reach his eyes. It was like he struggled to remember what a proud fatherly smile should look like. “Yeah. He was the first.” 

Another thought occurred to Bill, and he leaned forward in his seat. “Did I see his name on a trophy at James Monroe High?” 

Morris chuckled bashfully. “Yeah, uh, he was captain of his football team. Took them to the state championships in his senior year.” 

“Oh yeah!” Bill chuckled, tried not to let on too much how many threads he was tying together in his mind. “When was that?” 

Morris coughed a little. “Uh, two years ago. ’75. We were all real proud of him.”

“Where is he now? He must be, what, twenty?” 

Morris nodded. “He’s at college.”

“Football scholarship?”

“He _had_ a scholarship to UVA in Charlottesville,” Morris said, eyes hard with exasperation. “But he quit before his first year was even over. Said he was sick of football, and he was never going to get scouted.”

“Huh!” said Jim. “Gave up just like that?” 

Morris shook his head. “He was in a business degree, and he decided he didn’t even like UVA. He quit the scholarship, and he's back home now. Going to transfer to Georgetown to take _environmental science._”

Bill scowled. “What?” 

The fucking child-killer across from them ran a hand through his hair, tugged at the hair on the back of his head. “He wants to work in _conservation_? He’s always talking about _suburban sprawl_ and how terrible cars are.”

“Let me get this clear,” Bill said, looking and sounding incredulous. “He had full ride for a _business_ degree, and he gave it up to pay for some hippie nonsense?”

“Yeah, hippie nonsense,” Morris grinned at Bill, a look of relief and validation on his face. “Exactly. He got— he got a partial academic scholarship, he’s a smart kid. And I was— I was okay with it, at first, when I thought he was going to get a loan to pay for the rest of it. But…” he shrugged. “Mom said I needed to pay for it. Trev wanted a fancy Georgetown degree without any football, and Trev always gets what Trev wants.”

“Hold on,” Slováček said. “Mom said you needed to? Why is she still involved? You don’t still live with her, do you?”

“No,” Morris pinched the bridge of his nose. “We moved to Brookfield after our third, when Trevor was about five.” 

“You had three kids in a house with mom,” echoed Bill.

“Yeah, it was rough. But free childcare was nice. Gillian worked a little, when she could.”

“So you’re paying Georgetown tuition now?” Bill asked, brow furrowed, like this was the worst injustice he’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” Morris scoffed. “It’s bleeding us dry. I have no idea what we’ll do with the other four.”

“So why roll over on it?” Bill wondered aloud. “Why didn’t you put your foot down? Stand up to mom?” 

Morris looked troubled, staring down at the table. 

“I don’t see the big deal, to be honest,” said Jim. “It’s a shame he gave up a scholarship, but college football is very different than high school. I think it’s good that he knew he wasn’t going to get scouted, and didn’t waste more time trying.”

“That’s a good point,” Slováček said brightly. “We all know people who peaked in high school and never did anything else. You wouldn’t want Trevor to end up like that, right?” 

Morris didn’t answer, gaze fixed grimly in front of him. 

“You always want them to have it better than you did,” Bill agreed.

Morris huffed a laugh. “Well, he’s already doing better than I did. He hasn’t knocked anyone up, for starters.” 

“But you’re doing well for yourself now,” said Bill. “Got your own business. Your mom must be proud.”

Another light huff, or a sigh, or a scoff. Scott Morris was like an old chest, locked tight and sealed over with rust, just barely starting to crack open. “She’s certainly proud of Trevor. Dotes on him way more than she ever doted on me.”

“It’s different with grandkids,” said Jim. “All the pressure’s on you this time, not her.” 

“I had him too young. She made that abundantly clear. Never really got to make any decisions about him. Neither did Gillian. Mom always ran the show. And the way she…” he chuckled, shook his head. “It’s just… annoying. How much praise she heaps on him that she never did for me.” 

Bill let out a long plume of smoke, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Our generation never really got praised, did we?”

Jim chuckled. “Barely ever.” 

“Not like kids today,” said Bill. “They get everything handed to him.” 

“I had a case with a teen girl a few weeks ago,” Slováček said breezily. “She was pregnant. Marriage wasn’t even on the table for her. Her and the guy— they just didn’t want to do it.” She shook her head, baffled.

Bill scoffed. “Of course. They just take the easy way out.” 

Morris smiled faintly. “I don’t know. If I could’ve done things differently with Gillian… I don’t know. I just really wish we could’ve moved out right away.”

Bill shook his head. “It’s a real shame that when a guy tries to do the right thing it just blows up in his face.”

Morris laughed. “Yeah. I mean, getting married and _staying_ at my mom’s place was a living nightmare. All I heard was how much of a disappointment I was. And my brother’s jacket was still hanging on the mantle.”

Bill blinked. Shared a confused glance with Jim. “What’s that?”

Morris sighed. “I had an older brother. He died when I was young. Everything I did got compared to him. And he was dead, so obviously, he never did anything wrong.” 

“I’m sorry, man,” said Jim. “That sounds rough.” 

“What’s that about a jacket?” asked Slováček.

Morris stretched his back, face pained and hesitant. “They, uh… he had one of those letter jackets, from King George. ‘Cause he played football, too. Blue and white. And after he died, my parents hung it up on the mantle, like a shrine. Like… a _relic_.”

Slováček made a face. “What?” 

“That’s wild,” said Jim. 

Morris shrugged. 

There was a long, tense pause in the interrogation room. Jim discreetly snuck a glance at Bill, who sat with a lump in his throat, unable to talk but knowing that he should.

If he waited too long, Morris would shake off his funk and realize they weren’t talking about his houses, and that he was free to go.

Bill cleared his throat. “I was on the other side of that,” he said. “I had a little brother, and he died when I was in college.”

Morris lifted his head, surprised. “Oh, really? I’m sorry, man.”

Bill shrugged. “It was forever ago. And I mean, that was bad enough. But I can’t imagine— how old were you?”

Morris dropped his gaze to the table again. “About five or six.”

“Jesus,” said Bill. “And they put his jacket up like that? That’s weird." 

“It sounds like they didn’t even see you,” said Jim. “Too busy living in the past.”

Morris gave a sympathetic little head shake. “I mean, I— I get it. Mom adored Trevor.” He grimaced, and made an abortive little hand gesture. “My brother’s name was Trevor, too,” he explained. “And he was the most important thing to my Mom. It was her idea to name my kid after him.” 

“What about your dad?” Slováček asked. “Where was he in all this?”

“Oh, Dad was an asshole,” Morris said. He scratched his nose. “He died when my kids were little. He wasn’t as into Trevor as Mom was. Either of them.”

“What about you?” asked Bill. “Was he… into you?” 

Morris smiled ruefully. “Not really. He was one of those old school dads, you know. Barely ever saw him except to get the belt.”

“Oh yeah,” Slováček smiled. “I know the type.”

“I think we all do,” said Jim.

Morris chuckled. “It was the times. You talked back to Dad, you got the belt. It built character.” 

“Built character,” agreed Bill. “Built resilience. Made you understand consequences.” 

“Yep,” said Morris.

“But you can’t do that anymore.”

“Oh, God, no,” said Morris. “I mean, if I laid a hand on little Trev, my Mom would have a goddamn field day.” 

“She ever have a field day when your old man lay a hand on you?” asked Bill. 

Morris fell silent a moment. “No, she never had much time for me. I was sort of an afterthought. She had a few miscarriages between Trev and I, and they had stopped trying. They were perfectly happy with my brother until I came along.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Slováček. “They must’ve loved you.”

Morris scoffed. His gaze was distance, looking vaguely to the side of the room. “My brother was the only one who loved me. I think— I don’t remember, but I think my dad stopped going after him when he got too big. So then it was just me. And I deserved it sometimes, I’m sure I was a little shit. But sometimes it was just like— he was taking out his own shitty life on me. He worked at a fishery, my dad. Oysters. Talk about stinking at the end of the day.” 

Slováček laughed, eliciting a small smile out of Morris. 

He stared at her, eyes soft. Bill quietly wondered if he had ever spoken so openly to a woman before. “Dad hated being a father. Trevor was the apple of my mom’s eye, but to Dad, both of us were just… anyway, after Dad would have one of his little sessions with me, it was my brother who helped me, not my Mom. It’s weird. He was more of a mother to me than she was. He was the one who, you know, held me. Hugged me.” 

Morris turned away suddenly, and seemed to be blinking heavily. The rest of the room just waited for him.

“I always remember him wearing that jacket,” Morris said softly. “Blue and white. And then when she put it on the mantle, it was like… I had to see it every day, and I had to remember it. And now I had no one. Mom just… stayed in bed all the time, so it was just Dad and me. And he hated that I was so sad about Trevor. Said I was too sensitive. Too _queer_. He was terrified I’d end up a fag.” 

“Dads aren’t great with feelings,” said Bill. “Mine took my brother’s death kind of the same way.”

Morris glanced up at him. “Well, it wasn’t him that really bothered me. It was Mom just _ignoring_ me. She was mourning for this other child, and then treating me like I wasn’t there. She barely recognized me. Unless I was acting like him.” His voice went quiet on the last sentence, and he turned away again, looking at the wall on the side of the room.

For a while, the only sound was the soft whir of the tape recorder.

“Fuck her,” said Slováček.

Morris and Bill both started laughing. Bill, because he was so startled, and he let himself make eye contact with Morris like they were sharing the same joke. 

“Hildy,” Jim scolded. “Come on.”

“You come on,” said Slováček. “She sounds like a fucking bitch. Like she’s the only woman who’s ever lost a child? She’s got another perfectly good kid right here.” 

Morris kept laughing, and it sounded like relief pouring out of him. 

“Sorry,” Slováček glanced over at Jim and Bill, looking a little like she was actually worried she’d crossed a line. “It just pisses me off when moms are never happy with their kids.” 

“Well, I kind of did make her happy eventually,” Morris said, still smiling broadly. “It was kind of weird that it took knocking up a girl in high school. But when she got her grandkid, it was like she got Trevor back. She was real happy. But she still hated me.” He trailed off a bit, then gave his head a little shake. “How did we get to this? What were we talking about?”

Bill shrugged. “We can talk about whatever you want. We’ve got time.” 

“Yeah, but…” Morris looked around, trying to find a clock. Checked his wrist watch. “I should probably get going soon. I still have a house to clean up.”

“Well, maybe you can still help us with something,” said Jim. “Do you sell houses all the way down in Richmond?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I’ll go wherever I see something of value.” 

“There was this other case that’s been bothering us. This kid in Richmond, two years ago.”

“They caught someone for it,” said Bill. “His piece of shit foster dad. He’s awaiting trial.”

Morris straightened a little. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You hear about this?” asked Jim, sliding over some of the Tyler Banks material.

Morris looked down at Tyler’s picture— young, sunken-eyed, haunted. Morris was straight-back, and his interest was clearly piqued— more piqued than it should have been for someone completely unrelated to this random murdered kid in another city. Yet he remained completely blank-faced. No flicker of recognition.

Bill schooled his features best he could. Tried to take a page out of Slováček’s book and appear stupid and trusting. Under the table, he let himself clench one fist against his thigh, letting nails dig deep and sharp into the cheap, bargain bin trousers that were on their last legs anyway.

“Can’t say I've heard anything about this,” said Morris. 

“Well, it was pretty open and shut at the time,” said Jim. “But now that we’ve got all these bodies near your houses. This was one of yours, wasn’t it?” Jim slid forward a photo of a very standard, harmless looking little ranch house, one storey, double garage.

Morris squinted at it. “It looks vaguely familiar. But I don’t remember every house I sell. I’d have to look at my records.” 

“Yeah, I figured. No problem. We already dug around the records for it. You sold this house in January of 1976.”

Morris glanced back down at the house. “Well, sure. That sounds right.” 

Bill let the silence hang for a moment. “Tyler Banks was found dead in a field right behind this house.” 

Morris looked pained, and shook his head.

Bill gave him an incredulous look. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You don’t think that’s weird? That’s seven boys who were all found within spitting distance of one of your houses. And they were all murdered _while_ the house in question was being renovated. Not shown. Not sold. Renovated. While you were the only person who had access.” Bill felt himself going a little too strong, but it was hard to reign it in. He forced himself to lean back in his chair, gave Slováček an apologetic look after she shot him a questioning one.

Morris pursed his lips, let his eyes wander around the table in what, to Bill, was an obviously fake display of consternation.

“I mean,” Slováček started, sighing, her brows knit. “If they were using your houses, then it must’ve been someone who snatched your keys, right?” 

“It must’ve been,” said Morris, shaking his head, eyes wide and guileless. “But I— I really can’t think of who it might be. I really just— God, I wish I had reported them sooner.” 

“What I don’t understand,” Bill said, trying to sound as stupid as possible, “is how any of this started. I mean, you got this poor kid, Tyler Banks. He’s small and skinny. Why him?” 

Morris shook his head. “I have no idea. I mean, you guys are the experts.” 

“The only thing I can think of,” said Bill, “is that jacket he was wearing. Him, Chris Haddon, and Dennis Woods were all wearing letter jackets when they died.” 

“Tyler’s wasn’t real,” Jim added, as he lay down two more photos, face up, an array in front of their suspect. “His mom got it at K-Mart.” 

Morris’s eye twitched a little— maybe. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Bill was watching him too closely, waiting for him to crack, waiting for _anything_ that would let him arrest this guy here and now. But there’s that old adage about watched pots. So far, it was only Bill boiling over.

“That has to be something, doesn’t it?” Bill asked. “I mean, what do you think?”

Morris met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “You tell me.”

Bill didn’t break their stare-down while he lit another cigarette. Morris must’ve known they knew, at this point. Why would he stay so long when he didn’t have to? He wanted to know what they had on him. He was enjoying it.

The nicotine was a welcome hit to Bill’s blood. He lowered his gaze, let Morris think he had won that little mini-display of male aggression. 

“When was Banks killed?” Slováček looked over curiously.

Jim passed her the Banks materials. “About a year and a half ago. November ’75.” 

She made a show of flipping through the papers. “That’s right around Thanksgiving. I wonder if that had anything to do with it?”

“How do you mean?” asked Jim, as Bill kept on smoking his cigarette. He noticed more donut crumbs on his pants, and dusted them off.

“Well, Thanksgiving can be hard with family,” she said. “Maybe whoever did this got overwhelmed or freaked out.” 

“That’s a good point,” said Jim. 

“How do you handle the holidays, Scott?” asked Slováček. “With all your kids. And your mom.” 

Morris barked a laugh. “I just had a thought. Maybe you should be looking for someone without a family? Like, maybe some kind of drifter?” 

“Oh?” Slováček lazily dropped the Banks files on the table, leaned forward, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Well, the holidays can be overwhelming if you _don’t_ have a family, too. Maybe they didn’t have anywhere to go. Maybe they broke into my house to have a place to stay. And maybe, I don’t know… maybe things got out of control.” 

“You think that’s how these boys got killed?” Slováček asked, brow furrowed. “Somebody wanted to blow off some steam, and… things got out of control?” 

“Yeah, maybe,” said Morris. “I mean, I wouldn’t know. This isn’t my area. But I’m just trying to think of ways to help you. At the holidays, I’m checking in on my houses less often because I’m busy with the family.”

“Is that so?” asked Bill. “You think your wife would be able to confirm that?”

“Confirm… that I was busy doing family stuff two Thanksgivings ago?” Morris laughed again, then abruptly stopped. “Wait— I thought you said they arrested someone for the Thanksgiving kid.” 

“Yeah, Tyler Banks’s foster father,” said Jim. “But they lived all the way across town. It seems like a pretty big coincidence that he was dumped in front of your house, and then later, other kids died in front of your houses in the same way.” 

Morris swallowed, but they kept talking, kept making him switch his focus, before he could fully process anything they said. 

“This most recent kid, Antoine Ellis,” said Bill, laying down Antoine’s picture in the array. “He was killed on Palm Sunday.”

“Did you mention that you were Catholic?” asked Slováček.

“Christopher Haddon, down in Richmond,” Jim added another photo to the lineup. “Middle of February.”

“Valentine’s Day,” Slováček mused. “That’s not really a family holiday.”

“I had a hard time making sure my wife was happy, though,” said Bill. “How about you, Scott?” 

“Then there was Samuel Raza, up in Manassas,” Slováček said, as Jim put down another photo. “He was taken from a party on New Year’s Eve.”

“God,” said Jim. “The thing I miss _most_ about being a teenager was the parties.”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Slováček. “You didn’t care about messing up the house.”

“You’re young, so there’s no hangover,” said Bill. 

“And on New Year’s Eve? Kissing, that was the best part,” said Slováček. 

“I bet _Trev_ gets to go to some very good parties at college,” Bill said, still staring straight at Morris. The piece of shit in question gazed down at the photos, his mouth a straight line, betraying nothing.

“Then there was Craig Ward in Charlottesville, just before Christmas," said Jim. 

“He was a UVA student,” said Bill. “I wonder if he ever met Trev.” 

“If we’re talking about stressful holidays, Christmas takes the cake,” said Jim.

“I do not miss the patrol beat,” said Slováček. “Suicides and domestics, that’s what Christmas is about.”

“Jeremy Adams,” Jim continued, adding another picture. “Killed just before summer break last year.” 

“That must've been around the time Trev graduated high school,” said Bill. “Oh, hold on. Got to flip this over.” He stopped the tape recorder. Turned the tape over, and hit pause. 

“Then there was Dennis Woods.” Jim tapped Dennis’ photo, drawing Morris’s gaze towards it. “Killed in May, 1976.”

Bill made an exaggerated thinking face. “Is there a holiday in May?” 

“I think just Memorial Day,” said Jim. 

Slováček looked at them both like they were stupid. “Are you kidding me? Mother’s Day! Buncha bad sons in here.” She tossed her blonde hair and leaned forward. “What do you think, Scott? About this holiday angle, I mean. It all started at Thanksgiving.” 

"Yeah, but I think Scott’s onto something,” said Bill, rising from his seat. “Thanksgiving is hard for people without families, too. And it couldn’t have been a family man like Scott. You were extra busy during Thanksgiving ’75, right? You were at the state football championships, watching your son win.” 

Bill had turned towards the banker’s box at that point, and resisted glancing up at the two-way mirror to see Morris’ face behind him. Instead, he made a show of looking into the now-empty banker’s box.

He knocked on the two-way mirror. “Hey, Key. There’s some other case materials in here. Not sure I was supposed to see them.” Then he leaned against the two-way casually, hands fisted in his pockets.

Morris sat back in his seat, arms crossed, watching Bill warily.

Officer Key sheepishly came back in the room. “I’m sorry, sir.” He grabbed the banker’s box, and carried it as if it was weighted. Bill appreciated his attention to detail.

“That must’ve been a really fun day,” Jim said conversationally. “The whole family at the game. Was your mom there, too?” 

Morris didn’t answer. He was staring at the side table below the two-way mirror. 

Hidden behind the banker’s box, placed there discreetly by Officer Key when he originally brought in the case files, was Bill’s old letter jacket. Now, black leather sleeves and a red, boiled wool torso hung off the side of the table, looking sharply out of place in that cold interrogation room.

Bill followed Morris’ gaze to the jacket. “Oh, shit. Sorry about that. It’s my kid’s. I gotta bring it back to him, and didn’t want to forget.”

Morris flicked his eyes quickly to Bill’s. He stayed stock still, and his face betrayed nothing— except for the blood starting to drain away.

"I didn't know Holden played football," said Jim. Both him and Slováček looked up at Bill, completely ignoring Morris’ ever-paler face. 

Bill snorted. "They’d never let him on the team. Maybe as a water boy. This is _my_ old jacket from back in the day. My wife thought I should give it to him. Think it still fits?"

He shook out the jacket with a flourish, giving everybody a good look at it. 

“Wow, that’s a lot of patches,” said Slováček. “Were you captain or something?”

“Two years,” Bill said proudly. “Took us to Ohio state championships both times.” He shrugged the jacket on. Snug in the arms and shoulders, straining but not quite un-wearable. 

“Looking good, Bill,” Jim said drily.

Slováček flat-out _giggled_.

Bill gave her a hurt look. “What?” 

“You look like an overstuffed sausage.”

Bill huffed. “You try hanging on to your high school body.” 

“I did, thanks, and I also gave birth,” she shot back.

Jim laughed. “Detective Slováček, you are a cruel woman.” 

“Can you believe that?” Bill looked at Morris directly. The fucking subhuman piece of filth just stared at the H patched directly over Bill’s heart. “Like I need another woman reminding me that I’m not seventeen and hot stuff anymore. Like I don’t get enough of that at home.” 

“You ever feel that way, Scott?” asked Jim. “You must, if you married your high school sweetheart.”

“And living with your mom.” Slováček shook her head. “So hard to please.”

“And your son,” Jim added. “Grandma’s favourite. Just like your brother was.” 

“She never saw you, she only ever saw your brother,” said Slováček. “And now she only sees your grandson. You were just some disappointment in between.” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t all bad,” said Bill, still experimentally stretching his arms in his jacket. He’d get it repaired if the seams broke. He didn’t think Holden would mind. “You were on the football team too, right, Scott?” 

"Um...” Morris cleared his throat. 

“You wouldn’t lie about that,” said Jim. “That’s like lying about being a soldier. Stolen valour. You wouldn’t do your brother dirty like that.”

“It must’ve been _really_ hard,” said Slováček, “losing your brother, and then having a son so young. And giving him the same name to make your mom happy. That’s just… that’s confusing.” 

“Must’ve made it really hard to discipline him,” said Jim. “With your own mother overriding you like that.” 

“It’s hard enough disciplining kids these days,” said Bill. 

"When I was a kid," said Jim. "Boy, you talk back to the old man, he made you go out back and cut him a switch.” 

"Can't do that anymore," said Bill. “Not without some hippie screaming abuse.” 

“It’s a real shame,” said Slováček. “It builds character. Toughens you up.”

“And kids need to be toughened up,” said Bill. “You don’t want a kid to be too sensitive. Too queer. You don't want a fag for a son." 

Morris’s expression didn't change. The same angry, dead-eyed stare. No flinch. 

"But speaking of snotty kids you can't hit," said Bill, putting one foot up on his chair, leaning forward. He knew he usually looked intimidating like this. In normal circumstances, the intimidation would be undercut by him wearing an almost thirty-year-old varsity jacket that strained at the shoulders. But these weren't normal circumstances. "My kid, Holden, got himself into some real stupid shit the other night."

"Oh?" asked Jim. 

"Little brat goes out looking for booze," said Bill, keeping his eyes locked on Morris. "He finds some old pervert to buy it for him. You know what happened next?"

"No, what?" asked Jim. 

"This pervert takes him to one of Scott Morris's empty houses." 

"My goodness," said Jim. "Is Holden okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine," Bill said, throwing it away like it was nothing. “Had to put the fear of God into him, but he’ll live. I should've led with this. Sorry about that. I'm personally connected to the case, since this guy who's been using your house almost got my own kid. So I'm pretty motivated to find him."

Morris breathing had gone shallow, his pupils had become tight pinpricks.

"You've gone quiet, Scott," said Slováček. "What's wrong?"

Morris cleared his throat. He picked up his styrofoam cup and choked down whatever was left, coughed as it went down the wrong pipe. "I don't think I can help you guys,” he finally sputtered out. “I've told you everything. I really have to go.”

“Hold on now,” said Jim. “Just wait. Maybe if Bill tells us more about Holden. Maybe that'll help you remember something." 

"Uh, I..." Morris shook his head with a nervous laugh. "I really don't think so." 

“Did you know they can get fingerprints off leather?" asked Bill. 

Morris blinked.

"It's hard," said Bill. "The prints degrade pretty fast compared to, say, glass or plastic. Especially on rough leather like this. But it's not impossible. I just got the jacket back today. They already lifted some prints."

"Hmm," said Jim. "But they've got your prints, right, Scott? When you reported your key missing, in Fredericksburg. Maybe we should check them against these prints. Just to rule you out."

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Slováček. “Nothing happened to Holden, right? So even if it _is_ your fingerprints, that doesn’t prove anything.” 

But it was Scott Morris’s breath that betrayed him. It came faster and faster, until it barely came at all. He covered his face with one hand.

Bill reached out and turned the tape recorder back on. 

—

Bill got home just shy of midnight. He hadn’t meant to stay out for drinks so long, but tipsy Slováček was too funny to resist, and the resulting urge to _absolutely make sure_ Officer Key got her home safely too strong for Bill to just take his leave early.

The house was dark when he got in. He heard the TV in the master bedroom droning softly, but he stepped carefully anyway, just in case Nancy had fallen asleep.

In the hallway, Holden’s door creaked open. He was still in his street clothes, not yet dressed for bed. “Hi, Bill."

“Hey,” Bill beamed. He had the paper bag tucked up under his arm, as he’d had it safely in his possession all night. 

“How, um…” Holden fidgeted in the doorway. “How was your day?” 

"It was great," said Bill. "Holden, come here." 

Holden hesitantly stepped out into the hallway, illuminated by his bedroom light. He stood, stiff-backed and awkward as ever, arms hanging pointlessly at his sides, head bowed low. 

“I helped make a collar today,” said Bill, taking the jacket from the bag and shaking it out. “It’s over.”

“Really?” 

"Here," said Bill. He draped the jacket around Holden's shoulders. Smoothed the arms down. Left his hands on what passed for Holden's biceps. 

Holden blinked up at him, looking bewildered as ever. "You still want me to have this?"

"Yeah," Bill grinned. He squeezed Holden's arms. "It's yours."


	27. Meeting Debbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden has Debbie over for dinner. Bill doesn't understand their relationship.

Bill had never been much of a ruminator. Not until he and Nancy had started trying for children. That’s when persistent, slow-moving thoughts in the back of my mind settled in, thoughts that only left him when he was totally immersed in a case: _Is it me? Is it my fault? Is it because I didn't want it enough?_ A case kept him in the moment, kept his mind from wandering. But when a case was over, the post-arrest endorphin high never lasted very long. 

The Quarterbacks case was no different. The adrenaline saw him through a cheery Saturday, when he was attentive to his family, and didn’t get annoyed with Holden, and didn’t make Nancy frown that way she would sometimes frown at him. But it started to wear off on Easter Sunday morning, and was gone by the time the very boring church service was over. 

All that was left was the rumination. 

Holden hovered around Bill with wide, watchful eyes all weekend. He was exceedingly polite, despite being once again grounded for two weeks after his dumb stunt. Spring had fully arrived in Virginia, and the lawn needed cutting. He assented easily to Bill asking/telling him to help. 

He wore that varsity jacket, fully embraced it as _his_ after Bill returned it to him. Bill privately thought he still looked a little dorky in it. The kid was too skinny for one thing. He was filling out, but his weight couldn’t keep up with how tall he was getting. The jacket still hung off him like he was a coatrack. 

Bill showed him how to work the mower. Their front yard was on an awkward incline, so he’d do it himself the next day, which he thankfully had off work. But today, he wanted Holden to mow their expansive back yard while he cleaned last fall’s dead leaves out of the gutters. 

"I've never lived in a house with such a big back yard." Holden phrased it like maybe it was supposed to be a compliment, but his sulky tone gave away his true feelings. _Why do I have to mow your big, dumb lawn? Why didn't you get a house with a smaller one?_

"Just do as you're told and mow the stupid lawn," Bill shot back. He didn't say that when he and Nancy had bought the place, they were planning on having at least two kids, and they wanted a big yard for them to run around in. Now Brian barely used the swing set they had bought for him, and the closest he got to running was flopping down on the ground in his tantrums. 

Bill had a folding step-ladder, but Holden looked genuinely spooked when Bill started climbing it himself. He let the kid hold him for it as he climbed up to the gutter, but moved it himself when it came time, while Holden was distracted with mowing.

When he was down to the end of the house, the mowing stopped. Bill looked down the ladder. 

Holden stared up at him. "When is Scott Morris going on trial?" 

Bill slopped some more old leaves and crud into his garbage bag. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It's public business," said Holden, reaching out to hold the ladder steady. “They talked about his arrest in the paper."

"Well, when the public is ready to know about his trial, then that'll be in the paper, too." Bill tossed his bag of gutter gunk on the ground. 

He was aware that he was being cold. Holden had a not-insignificant reason to be vested in the case, after all. But he was vested in the case because of actions that were so stupid and irrational that Bill couldn't even think about them without getting pissed off. 

Holden said nothing as Bill climbed down the ladder. He made that troubled, clueless face he made when he was actually thinking about what he was going to say instead of just saying it. 

"Bill?" he finally asked, after Bill helped him fold up the ladder and lay it on its side. 

Bill grunted in response. He grabbed the rakes he had taken out, and gave one to Holden. 

Holden followed him into the yard to start raking up the cut grass. “Will I be called to testify at his trial?” 

"No," said Bill. “What the hell?”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, we don't want child services to find out what happened," Bill hissed, casting a quick glance at the house to make sure Nancy wasn't watching. Not that it would have made a difference-- _she_ knew what had happened, and she wanted to keep it secret as much as Bill did. 

Holden blinked. "You said I should tell Natalie everything."

Bill almost sputtered. "Yeah, before you pulled that stupid stunt last week. _That’s_ not the sort of thing you should tell your social worker. It’s not the sort of thing you should tell _anyone_.” 

"Bill," Holden announced, squaring his shoulders. "I would like to do my civic duty, and testify." 

Bill started laughing. He smothered it, but when he looked up and saw Holden's pout, he just started laughing again. 

"Why are you laughing?" asked Holden. 

Bill had to look away and focus on raking the grass for a while. Holden was just so... _earnest_. Sometimes Bill couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry kid," he finally managed. "I didn't mean to laugh at you. I never thought I'd hear a sixteen-year-old talk about his civic duty.”

Holden blinked at him slowly. 

"Holden, no. You're not going to testify."

"But wouldn't it be useful?"

"How? He didn't do anything to you, Holden. And nobody knows about what happened, anyway."

He scraped a little pile of grass together, while Holden said nothing. When Bill looked up, Holden was glaring at the ground. 

"Holden, this is a good thing," said Bill. 

"How come nobody knows?" asked Holden. "I told Detective Spencer everything."

Bill sighed. He rested his hands on top of the rake handle, and tried to look non-threatening. "I asked Spencer to close that file and not link it to the other cases. And there's nothing in our interview with Scott Morris about you." Nothing that ended up on tape, anyway. 

"Nobody else survived," said Holden, totally oblivious to what a fucked up thing to say that was. “I can tell the court what he did. It would speak to his state of mind."

Bill almost laughed again. "They don't care about his state of mind. And anyway, you can't lie in court."

Holden pouted again. "You told me to lie to Detective Spencer."

"Yeah, to keep child services from finding out what _you_ did, so they wouldn't decide Nancy and I were unfit parents and take Brian away." Bill levelled Holden with a hard look. “There's lies and there's lies."

Holden furrowed his brow. "I don't understand."

Bill dragged his rake through another patch of grass, gathered up a little pile. When it was and wasn't appropriate to lie-- especially to a law enforcement officer, and especially with a guardian's collusion-- was a big topic. It was too much parenting, and he really did not want to do it. 

Holden watched him warily. He started pulling his rake half-heartedly through the grass, gathering almost nothing. 

"That was a one-time deal," Bill eventually said. "Don't lie to a judge, Holden."

Holden grumbled quietly, dragging his rake a little harder, but no more fruitfully. 

"I mean it," said Bill. "Hopefully you'll never have to speak in court, but if you do, never, ever lie. It's perjury." 

Holden didn't respond. Obviously the nuances of lying to a detective but never lying to a judge was challenging whatever black-and-white view of the world he had. 

_It's only going to get worse from here,_ Bill thought. He didn't see a need to hasten that process. 

They finally raked up all the cut grass-- the yard really _was_ too big, Jesus-- and Bill got his bag of gutter gunk. As they hand-shovelled the grass in, Holden kept sneaking him glances. 

"So, um," he said. 

Bill waited for him to find his words. 

"I already talked to Nancy," said Holden. "And she said it was okay. But I had to check with you about what day would work.” 

_Oh, God, something new,_ thought Bill. _Does it ever end?_ "For what?"

Holden avoided his gaze, staring down at the little piles of grass cuttings he was putting in the bag. "Debbie and I have to do this project in school where we cook for our parents," he mumbled. 

Bill was pretty much always up for a meal, but cooking for parents sounded a little strange to him. "Why?" 

Holden blinked up at him. "Why what?"

"Why do you have to cook for parents?"

"To show that we can cook," said Holden. "Then you guys have to fill out a sheet saying how we did, and it's part of our grade."

"Holden," said Bill. "Are you taking home economics?"

"Yes." 

Bill dropped his pile of grass in the bag. “Why are you taking home economics?" 

Holden shrugged. "I don't know." 

"What do you mean you don't know? Home economics is for girls. Boys take shop."

Holden looked confused. "The boys and girls take both classes together. They split them in two groups, and one does shop for the first half of the year and the other does home ec, and then they switch." He picked up more small, almost-useless handfuls of grass cuttings. "I already did shop in Lynchburg, so they put me in the home ec group."

"So you didn't choose home ec," Bill said, a little relieved. 

"I would if they let us choose," Holden said. "I hated shop."

Bill sighed. "When I was a kid, boys just did shop. Teaching you home ec seems like a waste of time." 

"Nancy said that you would say that." Holden kneeled on the ground now, dragging his gloved fingers around in a small pile of cuttings, like Brian did when he played in snow. "And she said that if you said that, then I should say that _she_ said, um... 'When I moved in with Bill, he couldn't boil an egg, and it wasn't as cute as he thought it was.'"

Bill almost laughed. "I could boil an egg."

Holden shrugged. "That's not what she said." 

"Not as cute as he thought," Bill chuckled to himself. "Well I can _scramble_ an egg now."

"So can I," Holden shot back. 

"Okay, smart ass," Bill said. "What's this dinner thing?"

"We're supposed to make a three course meal for our parents," said Holden, lowering his head at the word _parents_ and fidgeting more. “And we’re supposed to do it alone. But Debbie's mom works nights, so there's no good time for her to do it. The teacher said it would be okay if we did it together." Holden dropped in another pile of cuttings, and looked up at Bill, like he had forgotten himself. "If— if it's okay with you that Debbie comes over."

"It's awfully nice of your teacher to let you pair off like that.” 

Holden's shoulders slumped, and he hung his head again, lazily scooping up more grass. "I think she feels bad for us," he muttered. "Everyone knows I'm a foster kid now, because of that thing with Mrs. Reid."

Bill scooped up his last pile of cuttings, and clapped the remnants off of his gloves. It hadn't occurred to him that Holden might not want the other kids to know he was in foster care. It hadn't occurred to him to think anybody might notice. "You didn't want anyone to know.” 

Holden scoffed, giving him a very dramatic look of teenaged exasperation. "Of course I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't even tell Debbie at first.” He lowered his head again, picking up straggling little grass remnants, sulkily dropping them in the bag.

“When do you have to get this done?” asked Bill.

Holden’s shoulders went up. “We… it’s supposed to be done by now. The teacher gave me an extension when I got suspended, but I just… kept… putting off asking about it.”

Bill sighed.

“She said it’s okay as long as we can do it this week,” said Holden. “Could… could we do it on Friday?” 

“Yeah, fine.” Bill tied off the garbage bag with a grunt. Such a basic, simple school assignment, and Holden couldn’t be bothered to do it on time. This kid never seemed to learn. 

\--

Friday came, and once again Bill had to cut work a little early so he could pick Holden and Debbie up from the Piggly Wiggly. They waited for him in front of the store, both holding paper grocery bags. 

_Oh boy,_ he thought as he pulled up. _Nancy is not going to like this._

Holden’s Debbie was, in fact, the girl Bill had seen in Mrs. Reid’s classroom that day. She still had her hair shaved high on both ends, the rest falling down one side, far past her shoulder, dyed an unnatural black. She had that too-big, button-covered leather jacket on, over a white t-shirt with a photocopy-looking picture on the front that said THE DAMNED. She wore heavy black eye makeup and heavy black boots, and leather? Shorts? With overall straps? And metal studs on them? What the hell, she was fourteen years old. 

Debbie and Holden looked like night and day compared to each other. He was taller than her by a full head and shoulders, and wore the world’s most boring pressed slacks and button-up shirt. Bill’s letter jacket hanging off him made the whole thing even more bizarre. 

Debbie was talking animatedly when Bill pulled up, and Holden stared at her with that intense, singular focus he had. She was the one to break his gaze, and smile affably at Bill. 

Holden took a second to realize what Debbie was looking at. “Hi Bill,” he said, as Bill popped the trunk for them. “Um, this is— this is Debbie.” After stowing their grocery bags, Holden scooted around to the front, and held open the passenger door. “You can sit in the front, Debbie.” 

“Thanks.” She plopped herself in like she owned the thing.

Bill glanced over his shoulder as Holden got in the back, tried to give the kid an impressed look, to reward him for his act of chivalry. Holden stared back, eyes wide, like he was completely clueless to what Bill was trying to say.

Bill sighed.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Tench,” said Debbie. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“You too, Debbie.” 

“Holden talks about you all the time,” she said, lips pulling up on one side.

Bill nodded, unsure what to do with that information. “You too,” he finally said.

“Aww, really?” Debbie’s voice was teasing, and she tossed her long hair to look back at Holden.

Holden said nothing.

Bill snuck a glance in the rear-view mirror. Holden held his hands tight in his lap, wringing them nervously, sitting ramrod straight, staring out the window.

What did he have to be so nervous about? Was Bill meeting his girlfriend right now? Bill was pretty sure he wasn't-- Holden had been too tied up lately with various suspensions and groundings that he didn't have the opportunity to go on any dates. 

Bill inwardly snorted when he tried to imagine what Holden would even _do_ on a date to begin with. 

But Debbie seemed like the type to take charge, anyway. Before the car could fall into an awkward silence, she easily slipped into conversation. However awkward and antisocial Holden was, Debbie made up for it, talking confidently like a young woman rather than a teeny fourteen-year-old girl. 

"Holden says you work in Quantico," she said. 

"That's right.”

"You must've left work early," she said. "We really appreciate it. I know how hard it is to get out of work sometimes."

"It's my pleasure.”

"I don't mind if you smoke, by the way." 

Bill smiled wryly, even as he got out a cigarette and reached for the car lighter. "Holden told you about that too, huh?" 

"Well, you know Holden. Once you get him talking about something, it's hard to get him to stop." 

Bill huffed a laugh, lighting his cigarette and cracking open the car window. 

Debbie turned in her seat again, looking back at Holden and sharing some silent conversation. 

"You mind if I turn the radio on?" asked Bill, when they stopped at a light. 

"Of course not, Mr. Tench," said Debbie. "It's your car, feel free." 

"Light jazz?" Bill proposed.

"Please," said Debbie. "Give me Sammy Davis Junior any day of the week." She grinned up at him, and held his eye contact, and Bill decided he liked her. 

The radio obliged, and Sammy Davis Junior took them home.

\--

Nancy had the exact reaction upon seeing Debbie that Bill had predicted she would. Holden introduced them, and Nancy stood silently for a moment, eyes wide and jaw clenched. She was pretty good at swallowing whatever knee jerk reaction she had, but it took her a second as she took in Debbie’s out-there appearance.

Soon Nancy visibly calmed, blinking a few times to get the wideness out of her eyes, and plastered on a smile. "Well, Debbie," she said, clearing her throat. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"You too, Mrs. Tench," Debbie said, smiling back, resolutely not acknowledging Nancy's obvious shock. "Holden talks so highly of you. Should I take off my boots?"

"Please." Nancy gave Bill a _what the hell is this_ kind of look. Bill shrugged. In twenty minutes, Debbie was already easier to get along with than Holden. She could dress like a children's birthday party clown as far as he was concerned.

"You have a lovely home," Debbie said, after she got her boots off, and Holden had hung up that terrible leather coat in the closet.

"Thank you," Nancy said tersely.

"And this must be Brian!" Debbie crouched down by Brian, who stacked his blocks in the corner of the living room. 

Nancy's face softened. Debbie sat on her heels next to Brian, talking gently to him, while Holden brought there grocery bags into the kitchen.

Spending some time with her and Brian, playing with blocks on the floor, apparently endeared Debbie to Nancy. Soon Nancy put Brian in his booster seat to feed him an early dinner, while Debbie and Holden got started in the kitchen.

Bill got himself a beer, and dozed off in front of the TV. At some point, after giving Brian a bath and putting him to bed early, Nancy joined him with her knitting. 

"She's cute," Nancy whispered. 

"Yeah," said Bill. "Even with all the, uh..." He gestured vaguely at his face and body.

Nancy made a face. "And she's so pretty. Why would a pretty girl do that to herself?" 

Every now and then, Debbie and Holden could be heard from the kitchen, squabbling like an old married couple over some aspect of their project. They had been given a cash budget, and had to save all their receipts and account for everything they did. They had a disposable camera to take photos of every step, and detailed instructions for each course of the dinner. 

Bill and Nancy mostly heard Debbie bossing Holden around, and Holden's occasional soft-voiced retorts. Debbie would sigh heavily, and sometimes laugh-- not some demure giggle, but an open-mouthed, _ha ha ha_ kind of laugh. 

After a loud crash, Nancy looked over in distress. "Maybe I should help them."

"They're supposed to do it on their own," said Bill. 

"What if they start a fire?" Nancy fretted.

"You kids starting a fire in there?" Bill asked loudly.

"No sir Mr. Tench," Debbie gasped out over her laughter. Holden grumbled something quietly, making Debbie laugh louder.

Nancy bit her lip, and went back to her knitting. "She's very… vivacious."

Bill snorted a laugh. "Yeah that's one word. Think she's kind of fast for Holden?"

"What?" Nancy furrowed her brow. "Fast? No, I wasn't thinking that. Were you?" 

Bill tilted his head. "No. I just don't understand what she sees in _him_." 

Nancy blinked. "I don't think it's like that. I think they're just friends."

"Can a boy and a girl really just be friends?"

Nancy pursed her lips at him. "Yes. They can."

Bill sighed into his beer can. It always came back to this. The old argument they've been having since they were 22. Except, he thought quietly, _he_ had been _right_, because that fucking car hop guy didn't want to _just_ be friends. Could Bill really be blamed for carrying that around for the rest of their marriage, always looking twice at the _friendly_ doctors and male co-workers hanging around his wife? 

"I don't want him to be one of those guys that carries a girl's books around, thinking there's going to be a relationship, when there never is," he finally settled on saying.

Nancy fiddled with her knitting, grip tight on her needles. "Do you think she'd string him along like that?" 

"Not on purpose," Bill said carefully. 

Nancy narrowed her eyes at him. 

"She's young," Bill clarified. "They're both young. They don't know what it is they're teaching each other."

Nancy blinked in surprise. 

"What?" 

"Wendy Carr's rubbing off on you," she said. "In a good way." 

\--

Miraculously, despite all the laughter and crashing, the kitchen did not burn down and dinner came out unscathed. Holden set the table carefully, going so far as to put a small bouquet of fresh cut flowers in a vase in the middle. 

They started with a garden salad-- Holden had even made the _dressing_, Debbie told them proudly-- and went on to beef stroganoff served on macaroni. They mixed 7-Up with fruit juice and canned cherries to make a punch, as obviously they couldn't serve alcohol, and Nancy thought that was about the cutest thing she had ever seen. 

"Thank you so much for letting me come here and cook for you," Debbie said, after Holden, who remained mostly silent whenever Bill and Nancy were around, had dished out the beef stroganoff. "My mom works evenings and weekend. We barely get to eat at home together at all, let alone do something like this."

"It's our pleasure," Nancy said brightly. "What is it your mother does?"

"She's a waitress at the Riverside Diner," said Debbie. 

"Oh," Nancy blinked, at a loss of what else to say. The Riverside was a greasy spoon diner in a not-so-great part of town. There were worse places to work, Bill thought, but not by much. 

"We usually eat there," Debbie went on. "But she works peak hours for a reason, you know? Can't exactly afford to take a night off anytime she wants." 

"It’s no problem at all having you," said Nancy, as Bill was too busy eating his second helping of stroganoff. "And I'm sure Holden appreciates having the help."

Holden nodded dumbly.

Debbie beamed. "It was his idea, you know. To help me. He's always been a real gentleman like that." 

Holden stared at his plate, picking at his food. 

“So tell us about yourself, Debbie,” said Nancy. “Any brothers or sisters?"

Debbie shook her head. "No, just me and my mom."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Nancy.

Debbie blinked. "Oh, no. It's just me and my mom _here_. My dad lives in Roanoke. I see him, like, all the time." 

"Oh," said Nancy. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that they're separated." 

It wasn't usually Bill giving Nancy warning glances, and his mouth was too full to talk, so between those two facts, it wasn't strange that Nancy didn't get the message. 

To her credit, Debbie only laughed. "No, no, Mrs. Tench. It's okay. They aren't separated. They were never married."

Nancy's mouth closed so hard it made a sound. Bill felt her look at him, and kept his gaze resolutely on his plate. It probably wouldn't do to rub it in.

"Deb-- Deb--" Holden cleared his throat. "Uh, Debbie and her mom moved here so-- so-- so Debbie could go to James Monroe, b-because they have the, uh, the IB program." 

Bill took a long drink of his beer, letting Holden stammer his way through that one. Shared another glance with Nancy. _Why is he so nervous?_

Debbie smiled softly, lowered his gaze modestly. "Yeah." 

"IB means International Baccalaureate," Holden said haltingly. "It's a program for really smart kids to get college credit."

"Wow," said Nancy. "Well, that's very impressive."

Debbie huffed bashfully. "It's not that-- I'm not taking college credit courses, not yet. The, uh, the other IB schools near Roanoke were all private schools. James Monroe was the closest public school that offered IB, so my mom moved us here so I could go. Dad stayed in Roanoke because he runs his own garage. He's a mechanic."

“That's nice," said Nancy. "When did you move here?" 

"Just last summer. I was almost as new a new kid as Holden was." 

“She also, um,” Holden stammered. “She— she moved here because of DC.” 

“Huh?” said Bill.

Debbie laughed under her breath. “We came here instead of Richmond, which also has a public IB school, because it’s closer to DC. I thought I could get some summer internships. But this year, um… it didn’t happen.” 

Bill frowned, remembering Mrs. Reid’s insidious meddling, and tried not to squeeze his beer can too hard.

“Well you’re only in ninth grade,” said Nancy. “You have plenty of time.”

“Yeah,” said Debbie. “I just wanted to make my time count.”

“There’s student internships at Quantico,” said Bill, and then immediately regretted it, as Holden straightened up fast, eyes wide, looking deeply offended that this had not been disclosed to him earlier. 

“For high schoolers?” Nancy sounded confused. “I thought you needed to be in university for those.”

“That’s the ten week program,” said Bill. “There’s less formal summer internships, in the fraud unit. Just research and clerical stuff.”

Holden leaned forward in his seat, opening his mouth.

“You have to have an excellent GPA,” Bill said, staring Holden down. “_And_ extracurriculars. And it’s in fraud, you wouldn’t be interested. There’s nothing for high schoolers in the criminal units.” 

Holden sat back, pouting. 

Debbie smiled wryly. “I don’t think I’d fit in with law enforcement.”

Nancy coughed politely.

“This thing I wanted in DC was for a non-profit,” said Debbie. “It was to help research for a white paper about food insecurity in urban centres.” 

Bill had no idea what any of that meant. “Well, research experience is research experience. If you change your mind, I could pass on your resume for you.”

Debbie’s smile grew. “Thanks, Mr. Tench. I’ll think about it.” She looked delightedly at Holden, whose returning smile could only be described as goofy. 

After their beef stroganoff, the kids went back to the kitchen to wash dishes. And to put the finishing touches on dessert, a pineapple upside down cake, which had taken the longest amount of time to prepare, and was the source of all that crashing and laughing earlier. Holden stiffly followed Debbie around, following her lead. 

"Do you see what I mean?" Bill whispered to Nancy. "He's so nervous around her. He's in love." 

Nancy shook her head. "I don't know." 

"A pretty girl can make a teenage boy do whatever she wants," said Bill.

Nancy regarded him a while. "You really think he likes her like that? Like more than a friend?"

"Don't you?"

"I think it's been a very long time since he's brought a friend home for dinner," she said. "If he's _ever_ brought a friend home for dinner."

Bill blinked, caught short.

"But if you really think she's leading him on, then you should talk to him about it," Nancy said, in a clipped tone that said she thought Bill was wrong.

Bill sighed heavily.

The pineapple upside down cake had a little too much butter and was a little burned, but it had been a long time since Nancy had the energy to whip up a big dessert, so Bill wasn't complaining. As Bill and Nancy filled out the grading sheets, Nancy kept heaping praise on the kids. Holden's cheeks got red, and Debbie teased him mercilessly, the kind of teasing, Bill thought pointedly, you'd only tolerate from someone in whom you were romantically interested. When he gave Nancy a knowing glance, she just rolled her eyes. 

They separated the leftovers. A few eggs and some mushrooms that they divided between the two households. A half-tub of sour cream that Debbie would take, the remaining macaroni that they would keep for Brian. A half-bag each of sugar and flour that Debbie insisted Nancy keep, since there was never any baking done at her place. And the remaining beef stroganoff and pineapple upside down cake, which Nancy in turn insisted Debbie take home to her mother. 

"Where do you live, honey?" asked Nancy. "Is your mom going to pick you up?"

"She works until midnight," said Debbie. "I was going to walk to the diner and meet her there." 

Nancy looked exactly the way Bill would expect her to look after news like that: shocked and bewildered.

"It's not that far," Debbie reassured her. "About twenty minutes." 

"I'll walk with her," said Holden. 

"So you're going to be walking around at night for forty minutes?" Nancy narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you forgotten that you’re grounded? Bill, you should drive them."

"Huh?" Bill looked over from the couch. He’d found _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance_ on TV. He was also about four beers in now, and Nancy could obviously tell from the way he blinked at her.

"Never mind," she said. "I'll drive you, Debbie. Holden, you can drive us back, get some practice in."

Holden and Debbie shared a quick glance. 

“Um, actually, Mrs. Tench,” Debbie said hesitantly. “Do you think you could drive me on your own? I’d love to get to know you better. And I think you and my mom would really get along. We can all have some tea at the diner, without Holden there, being all weird." 

Holden's brow furrowed very slightly, and Debbie stifled a laugh. 

"Well, all right,” Nancy said suspiciously. "You're okay with me driving Debbie home without you, Holden?"

Holden nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." 

“It was really great to meet you, Mr. Tench,” Debbie said. “Thanks again.”

“Good to meet you too, Debbie. Think about that internship.” 

At the door, Debbie and Holden hugged. She leaned up on her tiptoes and whispered something at him, squeezing his arms. 

Holden locked the door behind the ladies, and then stood awkwardly for a moment, the way he did whenever-- well, whenever. 

At some point he went off to his room. After a few minutes, Bill got himself another beer, and settled back down in front of the movie. 

"Bill?" 

Bill startled so hard he almost choked on his beer. "Jesus, kid. You trying to give an old man a heart attack?” 

"Sorry," Holden mumbled. He timidly stepped into Bill's line of vision. "I, um... I wanted to... say something."

Coughing, Bill looked up and saw Holden. 

Holden hugged his super secret death book to his chest. 

Bill stopped coughing. 

"Can we talk in my room?" Holden asked, his voice as small as Bill had ever heard it. "I don't want to upset Nancy."


	28. The Super Secret Death Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden tells Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Talk of suicidal thoughts.

Bill perched awkwardly on the end of Holden's narrow bed, wishing he hadn't already started on his fifth beer of the night.

Holden sat on the floor, cross-legged, staring down at the book he was still clutching. They had left the door half-open, light spilling into the hallway, blotting out the fainter blue from Brian’s nightlight. 

Bill remembered with sharp clarity what happened the last time they were alone together, and Holden knelt on the floor. He hoped Nancy would come home soon.

"So," he started, when it became apparent Holden wasn't going to speak. "What did you want to talk to me about?" 

Holden shifted slightly, easing his grip a little on his notebook. He didn't raise his head. "Dr. Jones said that if I trust you, then I should tell you about my book." 

"Did he?" Bill's eyebrows went up. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about Dr. Jones, given how oblivious the therapist was to Holden's stupid plans to run off with the Quarterback Killer. And from where Bill was standing, Holden had good reason not to trust any of his caregivers. What, exactly, was Holden telling Jones about Bill?

Holden made a noise that wasn't quite a sigh. Like an aborted attempt to speak. His shoulders went up a little, and he kept his chin tucked firmly down to his chest. 

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't actually want to," Bill said gently. Part of him wasn't even sure he wanted to know. But part of him was dying to know.

"I do trust you," said Holden. "And I need-- I need help. Dr. Jones can't help me with this, but he said it was okay, if I felt-- he said it was my choice. I could tell you about it, if I trusted you. And I trust you. I think."

Bill shifted uncomfortably. Holden's mattress was pretty thin, he realized-- they'd grabbed whatever was cheapest and in the right size-- and he sat almost directly on the hard boxspring beneath. He leaned forward, tried to mask his discomfort, tried to look open. "All right. Well... thank you.”

Holden raised his head, big, hesitant eyes shining. He chewed at his lip.

“So this is about your book.” 

Holden nodded.

Bill considered. "Well, I know how protective you are of it, and I know that when Nancy and I first saw it, we had a... pretty big reaction. So, um..." he coughed.

Holden dropped his head. "I'm not crazy," he mumbled.

Bill frowned. "I know," he said, not quite truthfully.

Holden finally just slammed the book on the floor in front of him, open to the taped-in calling card for Peachy Keene. "You saw this, right? When Nancy took it from me?”

Bill nodded, swallowing hard.

"Do you know who it is?" asked Holden.

"I... had my suspicions," said Bill.

"What are your suspicions?" 

Bill sighed. "That's the aunt of that girl you're friends with."

"Cheryl," said Holden. "She's not my friend, she's Debbie's friend. This is her aunt, Patricia." Holden turned back to the photo of Cheryl, her mother, and her aunt, the one with her mother's face scribbled out. "That's her. She's a dancer in DC, but she's gone missing. Cheryl can't find her. But, um, Cheryl's mom won't do anything about it. She says she probably just left town without telling anyone."

Bill nodded, waiting for Holden to continue. Nancy hadn’t been able to find any other gossip about Patricia Kane. Word on the nurse’s ward was that Stephanie Tuckman was no longer speaking to her. 

"Well..." Holden seemed to run out of steam. "That's weird, isn't it? People don't just leave town like that."

"They can," Bill said gently. "Sometimes people don't want to be found."

Holden's brow furrowed, and he glared down at the book on the floor. "Cheryl talked to her aunt on the phone every week. Her mother didn't know about it. Everyone is acting like her mother knew Patricia best, but Cheryl says they didn't speak at all. Patricia talked to Cheryl every week, and then suddenly she stopped."

“Holden,” Bill said, seeing that the kid was getting himself worked up. “Why don't we start from the beginning. What is this book of yours about?"

Holden kept his face down. "It's like... a journal," he said very quietly. 

"Okay," said Bill. "What does that mean?"

Holden straightened up a little, let Bill see his face. Those lines were back under his eyes, but he wasn't crying, at least. “My old therapist said journals were good for— for ‘processing.’ So I started writing about everything that was happening to me. But Pastor Walker didn’t let us have any privacy. He found it and he got angry because I was writing stuff about him. Even though it was just the truth. He tore up my journal.”

Bill suppressed an angry grunt. 

“When I went to live with the Mullens, I started this journal. I hid it better, and I didn’t really write about what was going on in my life. I was too scared to write any of that. So I was just putting in... like... stuff that I was thinking about, or stuff that I saw. I put in everything I could remember about..."

Bill let the silence settle for a while. Waited for Holden to screw up his courage to talk again. 

When that didn't happen, Bill prodded: "Remember about what?"

Holden wiped at his eyes. 

"It's okay," said Bill. “Take your time, kiddo.” 

Holden sat back slightly. He wrung his hands in front of him, leaving the book unguarded for the first time. Bill pointedly didn't look at the book, or reach for it. 

“I would… I drew pictures and wrote stuff that… that I remembered about my mom. And I would copy down stories from the newspaper. Stuff that reminded me of her.” 

“Like the song lyrics?” 

“Yeah. She liked the Stooges. She never got to hear that song. She liked Motown, too. She had a lot of records.” Holden leafed through his book listlessly. 

“Did you ever show this to Dr. Jones?” asked Bill.

“No. I’ve never showed this to an adult. Only Debbie. She said— she thought I should show you, too. I wanted her to meet you first, and then she said she thought you could help. Natalie and Dr. Jones know about it, but they’ve never seen inside. It’s…” 

Bill waited. 

Holden took a steadying breath. He closed the book, held it up so Bill got a view of the well-worn front cover, _Private property of Holden Ford!!_ written neatly, childishly, carefully on the front. “What’s in this book is what’s always in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like when you get a song stuck in your head, and you can’t get it out.” 

“Okay,” Bill said gently. “What is it that you can’t stop thinking about?” 

Holden’s grip on the book tightened. He glared even harder at the floor, made a choked-off grunting noise. 

“I can tell this is difficult for you,” said Bill. “I’m sorry that I don’t get it.”

Holden looked up at him skeptically. “Do you mean it?” 

“Well… yeah.”

“You don’t think it’s just weird and… disturbing?” Holden narrowed his eyes, a challenge.

Bill swallowed. “People say that about things they don’t understand. Things they don’t _want_ to understand. But I want to understand what you’re talking about, Holden. I promise.” 

Holden held his gaze for an uncomfortably long time, hesitant, calculating. “Someone is out there,” he finally said. “Hurting women. Women like Cheryl’s aunt. Women… like Mama.”

Bill slowly got down from the flimsy mattress, and with a grunt, sat himself on the floor, cross-legged, a mirror to the boy. 

Holden opened the book again. “Every day, I would read the newspaper to check. And then I would go to the library after school so I could look through old newspapers.” 

“That’s a lot of research.”

Holden nodded. “I worked on it every day. I wanted as much information as I could get.”

“Must’ve been hard to focus on school with all this going on,” Bill said gently. 

Holden huffed. “I didn’t care about school. I had too much research to do. I found cases from even before Mama went missing. There’s… there’s so many, Bill.”

Bill nodded, mouth tight and grim.

“Why are there so many dead women?” Holden asked, tone even and earnest as it always was. “You caught Scott Morris for killing boys, but there’s… there’s so many murdered women. Why aren’t they catching their killers?” 

Bill tried not to heave a huge sigh. “I don’t really have a good answer for that.” 

Holden looked slightly stricken, blinking big, wet eyes. “Well, I… I think some of these, at least, must be the same person. It’s hard to find more information about them, without… without going to talk to their families…”

Bill eyed Holden carefully. 

Holden, breath coming quicker, turned to a copied newspaper article, accompanied by a graphite drawing of a woman’s dead, nude, eviscerated body. “Here. This lady was a dancer in DC, like Cheryl’s aunt. She made money from… from men, like my mother did. She was the same age as my mother, 26, and she was white and— and had long hair and she— and she used— she used—”

“Hey,” Bill put a steadying hand on Holden’s forearm, gave it a very gentle squeeze. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath.” 

Holden stared down at Bill’s hand on his forearm. He didn’t flinch or pull his hand away. He nodded, and took a slow, shaky breath in.

“Let’s take it slow,” said Bill. “What, exactly, does this have to do with your mother?” 

Holden hung his head. “I... I can’t say.” 

“Does it… you told me that you had a secret you couldn’t tell anyone about. Does it have to do with that secret?” 

Holden nodded.

Bill had to keep himself from clenching his fist, and crushing Holden’s thin wrist. He dug the fingers of his other hand into the carpet instead. “Okay. Holden, do you… do you think your mother was murdered?” 

Holden’s face crumpled. He dipped his chin even further into his own chest. 

Bill rubbed Holden’s arm awkwardly. “I’m sorry, kid. But the… the police investigated, and they said she—”

“She didn’t leave me,” Holden insisted, still staring at the floor, still not shying away from Bill’s hand on his arm. “Mama and No wouldn’t have left me. They would have taken me with them.”

_Fucking No_, thought Bill. This was looking more and more open and shut to him by the minute, but now didn’t seem like the right time to challenge Holden on it. It was becoming apparent that Holden was going to need hard proof before he believed anything about his mother. Bill just sighed, and withdrew his hand, leaning back against the bed. 

“Something bad happened to Mama. And whoever did it is still out there.” Holden’s voice broke, and finally, a tear slipped down his cheek. “He might be killing other women. And nobody cares. Nobody’s even looking… I have to find him. I have to— I have to—” Holden’s eyes unfocused, and he started gasping.

“Hey, hey,” said Bill. “Look at me. Good boy. Breathe.” He put his other hand on Holden’s other arm. 

Holden pulled back away from Bill. Fisted his hands in the carpet, gripped them tightly, as he took a pained, labouring breath. 

“Kid,” Bill started, gently, after Holden had taken a few more breaths. “What is it you think you’re going to do?” 

“If I’m patient enough, and look hard enough, I can find him,” Holden declared, though his determination was undercut by his tearful sniffling.

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. Kill him. And then kill myself.”

Bill’s heart sank. “Holden—”

“I didn’t care,” Holden went on. “Finding him is all I can think about. That’s why I didn’t care about school. Or making friends, or girls or… and nobody ever cared about _me_.” He spat the last word.

Bill sighed, and rubbed the back of his head.

“All I wanted to do was find him and kill him. And if I couldn’t find him, I’d kill myself eventually, so I could just be done with it. If Scott Morris killed me, at least then I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.” Holden sniffled. An ugly, wet sound. 

A lump sat in Bill’s throat, and it didn’t go away when he swallowed it. “Have… did you have a plan for how you’d kill him?” He asked very, very hesitantly, half in disbelief at himself. “Or… yourself?” 

Holden scowled his lead-melting scowl. “No. That wasn’t the part I’d think about. I just wanted him to be dead.”

Bill bit back a sigh. That was something, at least. 

“But I— _I_ don’t want to die anymore. And I…” Holden ducked his head and mumbled. “I like it here.” 

“We like having you here, too,” Bill mumbled back. 

“But I can’t _stop_. I can’t stop looking, because then it’s like… it’s like I’m forgetting her.” 

“You wouldn’t be forgetting her. No one would think that.”

“No one even knows she’s dead. If I stop looking, it’s like saying I don’t care about her.” 

“Holden, some people go their entire lives not knowing what happened to their loved ones,” said Bill. “It’s okay to move on with your life, and to try to be happy. It doesn’t mean you don’t love her. She wouldn’t want you to only be thinking about all this stuff, and she wouldn’t want you to… she would want you to move on, and have a good life.” 

Holden shook his head. He lifted his gaze, stared at Bill with those deep, hurt, searching eyes. “If you never found out who killed your brother Owen, would you be able to stop looking and move on?”

Bill’s gut clenched so hard he almost retched. He clamped it down, until the pain was just a hard throb under his heart. Where it usually stayed. Where it couldn’t hurt anybody. 

“No,” he finally said. “You’re right, Holden. I would never stop looking.” 

Holden’s lip wobbled, and his face crumpled again. He curled up on himself, shoulders trembling.

Bill was out of his depth. There weren’t any words he could say to make anything better. He’d never been more powerless than he was in this moment, with a broken, grieving, parentless child in front of him.

He could reach out, maybe, he thought, put his hands on Holden’s shoulders, and if Holden was receptive to it, and didn’t think Bill was trying something funny— 

Holden scooted backward, away from Bill. He wiped his eyes quickly, then sat up straight, hands wringing nervously in his lap. “I’m sorry for crying.”

“I… that’s fine,” said Bill, feeling strangely disoriented and bereft.

“I understand now that I can’t find him on my own,” said Holden. “I lack the resources and expertise. But I can’t just stop. So will… will you help me?” 

“Will I help,” Bill repeated, stupidly.

“I know you’re busy, and I know the _FBI_ won’t take it on,” Holden said hurriedly. “But the police aren’t looking, and… and they wouldn’t listen to me, anyway. But… but you listened to me. And you believed me. You took my side. You’re the only one I could trust with this.” Holden lowered his eyes, rocked back and forth slightly, still wringing his hands. “The only one,” he muttered, very, very quietly. 

Bill stared down at the worn out old exercise book, suddenly as intimidating and charged as a dead body itself. 

He knew at once what he _shouldn’t_ do: say yes. Making a promise to a victim’s survivor was dangerous enough. He’d said it to Slováček, and he’d meant it. _You don’t work for the family._

Having an entire _relationship_ with a victim’s survivor was even worse. This was beyond a lack of compartmentalization, or a lack of professional detachment. This was straight up attachment. Bill was _compromised_, possibly even more than he had been with Scott Morris. 

But the one thing Bill had been his entire adult life was a civil servant. First as a soldier, then in law enforcement, and now as a foster parent, no matter how grudgingly. The state had charged him with the care of a child. It had taken four months to earn that child’s trust, like a shoot of plant life through a crack in the concrete— and now he was just supposed to crush it? Say _No, you can’t trust me after all, you’re on your own; and you’re damn right nobody cares about you or the fate of your missing mother, herself a neglected, vulnerable teenager when she had you?_

All that was merely justification, though. Miss Wong may have been right about Holden being manipulative, after all. _What if it was Owen?_ had already done it for Bill.

And anyway, he’d tossed professionalism to the wind when he decided to go after that dirtbag Noah Graham and nail him to the fucking wall, entirely for his own satisfaction, and well outside his FBI responsibilities. All this would do is add a little outside pressure. 

Bill placed a hand near the notebook, not quite touching it. “Are you sure?” 

Holden nodded, eyes bright. "Yes, please. Take my book. I’ll tell you everything you want to know if... if you have any questions.”

Bill turned the pages, gently but quickly— he wanted to avoid that dead cat on the first page. “I have to say, it’s unlikely these other deaths are actually related.”

Holden frowned.

“But I understand you couldn’t talk to the police about it, and they wouldn’t have shared whatever they knew,” Bill added hastily. 

Holden nodded. “Maybe we can—”

“Holden,” said Bill. “If I’m going to do this for you, you have to trust me to do it _for you_. I’m in charge. That means I’m the detective. There’s no _we_. Okay?” 

Holden pouted, head tilted slightly to one side.

"I need to hear you say okay, Holden."

"Okay, Bill," Holden huffed.

"And me being in charge means that I'm going to do it on my own timeline. I don't want you checking in on how the case is going."

Holden sighed.

"This is to protect you, Holden," said Bill. "I don't know what kind of outcome you have in mind, but if you come to me with a lot of expectations, you're going to end up hurt. I don't want to hurt you."

Holden looked hurt now, mouth flattening, gaze drifting away. 

"It's the same as any other case," said Bill. “I’m not going to share the details. But just because we don't talk about it, that doesn't mean I'm not working on it. I need you to trust that I’m on it.” 

Holden furrowed his brow, and fidgeted slightly. "But what if I have an idea?" 

Bill sighed. "The thing is, Holden... I'm your foster dad. My job is to look after you, not consult with you on cases. If you really have something you think is important, then share it with me, but this isn’t your deal anymore. You don’t need to have ideas.” 

Holden kept fidgeting. "But there's stuff that I... that I haven't told anyone and... and maybe you'll have a question about something in the book."

Bill nodded. Just on perusing it now, he could tell he would have a lot of questions, but he doubted whether any of them would end up being relevant. "I don't want to push you into talking about stuff that you're not ready to talk about. When you're _ready_, then you can tell me. But, Holden, we're not rushing this. Part of trusting me to handle it means trusting me to know if we're pushing you too hard. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Holden mumbled, though he didn't sound happy about it. 

"I mean it, Holden. This is off your plate. I want you to focus on school, and just... being a normal kid." 

Holden made a face of faint disgust. 

"I'll do my best with this," said Bill. "But it might take a while. And you might not get the answers you want."

Holden slumped a little. His hero-worship was clearly taking a hit. Maybe he had wanted Bill to take one look, praise Holden as a genius boy detective, identify the killer immediately, and rush out to make an arrest. 

"Is there anything else you want to tell me right now?" Bill asked gently. "Do you... do you have an idea of anyone in particular we should be looking at?” Because God, if Holden could just come out and say he thought Noah Graham did it, it would save him a lot of trouble. 

Holden bit his lip, and looked down at his hands. He shook his head.

"That's okay," said Bill. "We have plenty of time.”

Holden nodded. 

"Thank you for--" Bill cleared his throat. "I know this was hard for you to show me. So, uh... thanks for... trusting me."

“You won't tell Nancy, right?"

Bill sighed. “I think I probably should.” 

"I just... I just don't want to upset her."

"I know."

The front door creaked in the living room. “I’m home,” Nancy called out. “Where are you guys?” 

Holden gawked at his open bedroom door, then back at Bill, eyes wide.

Bill quickly shut the notebook and shoved it under Holden's mattress behind him.

"There you two are.” Nancy stood in the doorway. "What are you doing?" She looked and sounded slightly suspicious. Obviously she had not forgotten about Holden's shenanigans on the living room couch. 

Neither had Bill. He hastily put another inch between himself and Holden. 

"Bill was just helping me," Holden said hurriedly. "With, um. Girls. Girl trouble."

"Really," said Nancy.

"Yep," said Bill. “Too many girls, that’s the trouble.” 

"Okay." Nancy smiled slowly, like she wasn't sure what to believe, but the answer was so adorable, she was going to just go with it. "Well, Debbie is delightful, and her mother is lovely. I had a really good time tonight, Holden.” 

Holden ducked his head, shoulders going up.

“Quincy’s on,” Nancy said, drifting back to the living room. “Come watch it with me.”

Holden looked up at Bill questioningly. 

“Go ahead,” said Bill, reaching behind him for the book under the mattress. “Go watch Quincy.”

The boy got to his feet, and with another nervous glance at the notebook in Bill’s hands, slipped off to the living room.

While his family was occupied, Bill tucked the notebook under his arm. He got his reading glasses from his briefcase in the bedroom. In the utility room, he slipped on the old coat he used to work in the garage when it was chilly, and his winter boots. 

He went to his cabinet in the garage. Put the super secret death book on top. And he started reading.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pphheeww!! Thank you so much for everyone for reading, and for the kudos and comments! I've been working on this fic since August of last year with few breaks (besides just life getting in the way.) It is the longest story I've ever tried to write and the most plotty. I've never written a mystery before, and I have been enjoying it, but also found it super intimidating. Your support has meant the world to me.
> 
> I'm afraid I can't say when Part Two will be up, but it will probably be at least a few weeks before I start posting it. There are other fics I also want to write, so it might be even longer than that. But it is something I am really invested in seeing through to the end!
> 
> In the meantime, you can check out the [fic tumblr](https://yourbeauties.tumblr.com/) as I have a few little bits I plan on posting there soon, and I'll also post when Part Two goes up. You can also subscribe to the series on AO3 if you want to be notified when it's up! 
> 
> Thank you again! Please do let me know what you think and what you are looking forward to/not looking forward to in Part Two, lol. (Totally valid if you're not looking forward to 150k more words of meandering nonsense!) Or feel free to ask me a question here or on the tumblr if you have any. Comments make it all worthwhile! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm VivaRocksteady on tumblr and pillowfort.
> 
> I have a [a tumblr for this fic](https://yourbeauties.tumblr.com), with inspiration photos, videos, other bits and bobs, and deleted scenes.


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